Chapter Six
Knox
I’ve changed clothes three times, eventually settling on dark jeans and a charcoal sweater under my black coat. Casual, but
not too casual. Trying to look like I’m not trying.
I’m definitely trying.
The neighborhood is quiet this time of evening, the brownstones lit from within, the sidewalks mostly empty. It’s cold enough
that my breath fogs, but not bitter, and I find myself thinking it’s good weather for walking.
At exactly 5:59, I climb the steps to her building and press her buzzer.
“You’re early,” her voice crackles through the speaker.
“One minute.”
“That’s early.”
“Would you prefer I wait outside until exactly six?”
A pause. Then the door buzzes open. “Get up here before you freeze.”
I take the stairs two at a time, and her door is cracked when I reach her floor. I push it open slowly, unsure of the etiquette.
Am I supposed to wait in the hall? Come inside? Normal people probably know these things, but I haven’t been normal in a very
long time.
Her apartment is small but intentional, dark colors and clean lines. Bookshelves overflow with paperbacks, and near the window, a collection of dried roses hangs upside down, red petals preserved, stems bound with twine.
Something possessive flares in my soul. Who gave her roses?
But I push it down. Maybe she bought them herself. Maybe she just likes roses. Not everything is a sign.
“Give me two minutes,” Hailey calls from somewhere deeper in the apartment. “I’m almost ready.”
“Take your time.”
I don’t move from the doorway because it feels wrong to intrude further without invitation, but I let my eyes wander, taking
in details I couldn’t see from the street. The art on her walls is mostly black and white prints of cities I don’t recognize,
and a stack of books sits on her coffee table, their spines worn soft from reading. The blanket thrown over her couch looks
like something you’d wrap around yourself on cold nights, and I find myself imagining her here, curled up with a book, the
city lights glittering outside her window.
I imagine myself beside her.
“Okay.” Her voice is closer now, and I turn to find her emerging from what must be the bedroom. “Ready.”
She’s wearing black, because she’s always wearing black, but it’s different tonight. A fitted coat nips at her waist, a scarf
wraps loosely around her neck, and she’s got on those same boots with the silver laces. Her hair falls past her shoulders
in waves, and she’s done something with her eyes that makes them look bigger, smokier. The silver rings are back on her fingers.
She looks like trouble, and she looks like everything I want.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“Yes.”
A beat of silence stretches between us, and she seems to be waiting for something more. An apology, maybe. An excuse.
I don’t offer one.
“Well.” She pulls on her gloves, breaking eye contact first. “At least you’re honest about it.”
“Would you prefer I pretend?”
“I’d prefer you have some chill.”
“Fresh out.”
She huffs in what might be a laugh and pushes past me into the hallway. I catch that scent again, dark flowers and midnight
gardens.
“Come on,” she says without looking back. “Let’s see if you’re as interesting in public as you are lurking around jewelry
studios.”
The F train is crowded this time of evening, packed with commuters and people rushing to early dinner reservations and others
heading into Manhattan for the holiday lights. We stand near the doors, pressed closer than strictly necessary by the bodies
around us, and when Hailey grips the overhead bar, I position myself between her and the rest of the car, blocking strangers
from pressing too close.
She notices. I can see it in the slight tilt of her lips.
“You’re doing that thing,” she says, voice low enough that only I can hear.
“What thing?”
“The protective thing. Standing between me and everyone else.”
“Force of habit.”
“Is it?”
I don’t answer. The train lurches, and I brace a hand against the pole above her head, leaning in to keep her from stumbling.
For a moment, we’re close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her eyes, the slight part of her lips.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
“You’re welcome.”
We don’t talk for the rest of the ride, but she doesn’t move away, either. She just stands there in the circle of my arms,
close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body, and something deep within me unknots slightly. This is real.
This is happening. I haven’t ruined it yet.
Union Square is sensory overload. The holiday market sprawls across the park in rows of white tents glowing under strings of lights, and the smell hits first: roasted chestnuts and mulled wine, fresh pine and something sweet that might be caramelized apples.
Music drifts from somewhere, holiday standards played on what sounds like an accordion.
People are everywhere. Couples and families and groups of friends wrapped in scarves and good cheer, moving between stalls
selling jewelry and candles and soap and ornaments.
I hate crowds. Always have. Too many variables, too many sight lines to cover, too many places for threats to emerge.
But Hailey is already moving into the fray, her dark coat a beacon in the sea of red and green, and I follow without hesitation.
“I’ve never actually been here with anyone,” she says, pausing at a stall selling hand-poured candles. “Always meant to, but . . .”
“But?”
She shrugs and picks up a candle, sniffing it before setting it back down. “I tend to do things solo. I don’t really do people.”
“You’re here now.”
“I’m here now.” She glances at me sideways. “Jury’s out on whether that was a good decision.”
“I’ll try not to disappoint.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.”
“I work well under pressure.”
Something flashes across her face. Not quite a smile, but close to one. “Military training?”
“Something like that.”
We drift through the market, stopping at booths that catch her attention. She lingers over old jewelry, turning pieces over
in her fingers with an expert eye, then pauses at a display of antique books and runs her fingers along the worn covers. At
a chocolate stall, she samples three different truffles and pronounces them “acceptable,” which I’m learning is high praise
from Hailey.
I find myself watching her more than I watch the vendors. The way her face changes when she finds something interesting. The
dry comments she makes about the more absurd offerings. The way she moves through crowds like water, always aware, always
observing.
She catches me staring more than once but doesn’t call me out on it.
At a booth selling metalwork, I find them: silver earrings, delicate spirals that catch the light, simple but distinctive.
They’re the kind of piece she’d choose for herself.
“These,” I tell the vendor before I can talk myself out of it.
Hailey appears at my elbow, eyes narrowing when she sees what I’m buying. “What are you doing?”
“Buying you something.”
“You can’t just buy me jewelry.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . .” She pauses, clearly searching for a reason. “It’s too much. We’re on a first date.”
“Is that a rule?”
“It’s common sense.”
“I’m not particularly common, and I’ve never been accused of having much sense.” I hand over my card before she can protest
further.
The vendor, wisely, stays out of it and hands me the earrings in a small velvet pouch, wishing us a happy holiday.
I turn to Hailey, who looks like she can’t decide whether to be annoyed or touched. “These are yours.”
“Knox.”
“Hailey.”
“You can’t just . . .” She takes a breath. “Why?”
“Because they reminded me of you.”
“You’ve known me for an hour.”
“I’ve known you for a year.”
The words settle between us, and I watch something swirl behind her eyes. A softening. A crack in the wall she keeps so carefully
maintained.
“We’ve worked in the same orbit for a year,” she says carefully. “That’s not the same as knowing someone.”
“Isn’t it?”
She doesn’t answer. She just takes the velvet pouch from my hand, and when her fingers graze mine, neither of us pulls away.
“They’re beautiful,” she says quietly as she opens the pouch. She removes her current earrings, simple silver studs, and replaces
them with the spirals. They catch the fairy lights, glinting against her hair. “How do they look?”
“Perfect.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s fighting a smile. “You’d say that no matter what.”
“Probably, but that doesn’t make it less true.”
For a moment, we just stand there while the market swirls around us. Lights and music and laughter that somehow doesn’t reach
us. We’re in our own pocket of stillness, and I don’t want to leave it.
Then she shakes her head slightly, breaking the spell.
“I need hot cider,” she announces. “And you need to tell me about your taste in Christmas movies.”
“Die Hard.”
She stops mid-step and turns to stare at me. “That’s your answer?”
“It’s a perfectly valid answer.”
“It’s a cop-out. And cliche. I’m having to work hard not to roll my eyes.”
“Die Hard takes place during Christmas. There’s a Christmas party. There’s decorations. There’s holiday music.”
“There’s explosions and machine guns.”
“Those are incompatible with Christmas?”
She laughs, and the sound does something to my entire being. Something warm and bright that I want to hold on to. “Fine. I’ll
allow Die Hard. But you have to give me something else. Something sincere.”
We find a cider vendor and I buy two cups, passing one to her. The warmth seeps through my gloves as we start walking south,
drifting away from the main market toward quieter streets.
“Scrooged,” I say. “Bill Murray version.”
“That’s a comedy.”
“It’s a dark comedy. There’s a difference.”
“Mmm.” She sips her cider, considering. “What about the classics? Miracle on 34th Street? White Christmas?”
“Haven’t seen them.”
“It’s a Wonderful Life?”
“Never.”
She stops walking. Actually stops, right there on the sidewalk, and stares at me.
“You’ve never seen It’s a Wonderful Life.”
“No.”
“How is that possible? It’s on every channel from Thanksgiving through New Year’s.”
“I don’t watch much TV.”