Chapter 6 #2
Which means that while I stood out here mentally spiraling for at least two minutes straight . . . Miles witnessed it all.
Just doing my part to solidify my status as the resident weirdo.
“Hi . . . ?” he says after a beat.
“Hi,” I say.
His eyebrows go up in a question.
“I made you these”—I thrust the container in his general direction—“to, uh . . . thank you.”
He looks at it, then at me. “For what?”
“For helping me get back into my apartment last night.”
“Oh, you’re Claire,” he says, drawing out my name, exaggerating. “I didn’t recognize you without the green face.” He smirks and reaches for
the container.
He’s got jokes, I see.
I pull it back. “Never mind.”
He changes his tune immediately. “No, no! I’m kidding. I promise.” He motions for me to hand it over.
I make a show of pretending to think about it, then finally give it to him.
He takes the lid off, picks up a cookie, looks at me questioningly. These good? he seems to ask.
I raise my eyebrows to answer, Eat it and find out.
I realize I’m nervous to share my baking with him. It’s . . . vulnerable, in a way, because there’s a story behind everything
I bake. A memory of my grandparents or of my childhood. Every cookie is personal to me.
Which, I realize, is a little ridiculous.
He nods in capitulation and takes a bite. His face changes, looking pleasantly surprised.
“You made these?” he asks with a mouthful.
“Yes.”
He closes his eyes, nodding, like this will enhance the experience somehow. “That’s good.” He looks at me.
“Thanks.” The nervousness melts away, and I’m oddly proud that he likes them.
In another weird moment of honesty, I say, “I’m not used to needing people’s help.” A pause. “So, thanks.”
The irony of that statement isn’t lost on me. I’m not used to needing help implies I’m a strong, competent woman.
Which is, of late, the opposite of how I feel.
There’s an awkward pause, so I give a little wave and turn to go.
“Oh, wait, Claire.” He stops me. “I wanted to . . . There’s something I should, um, probably tell you . . .”
He screws up his face and points to the corner of the building over my shoulder. I turn, not knowing what he’s indicating,
but then my eyes focus on something mounted to the side, just above the awnings over the windows.
It’s a camera.
My eyes dart to the other corners of the courtyard.
There are cameras on every corner of the building. I count at least six.
I whip back around to him, eyes wide, panicked. Did some security guard see my nearly nude escapades last night? Was I half
naked on a bank of screens somewhere? Did someone take that footage and is now uploading it to . . .
He immediately holds up a hand, seemingly knowing what my distressed face is silently screaming.
“I erased it.”
I stare into his eyes, looking for a joke or a dig. I find nothing except honesty.
“You—” I start.
He nods. “It’s fine. No one saw anything. I didn’t even rewatch it.” He pauses and smiles slightly. “Three times, tops. But
no more than that.”
I burst out a nervous laugh, shaking my head. “You’re the worst,” I say, and then after a pause, “but seriously . . . thank
you.”
He smiles.
I smile.
We stand there for a beat too long, and then I start to walk away, but he follows me, stepping barefoot onto the rug in front
of his door.
“Where are you headed today?” he asks. “You look, you know, done up.”
“Job hunting,” I say, chagrined. “In an unfamiliar city with a nearly blank résumé.” I scrunch my nose, aware this might be
a fool’s errand. The best I can hope for is that someone will take pity on me.
“Wait, you’re not from here?”
I wince. “No. Moved from Colorado.”
“Wow, you’re a long way from home.”
“Oh! No,” I say. “I lived there for a while, but I’m not from there. I grew up in Illinois.”
He leans on his doorframe. “Just not the city.”
“No, not the city.”
He folds his arms, and he seems fully engaged in this conversation. I can’t remember the last time I had a meaningful conversation
with a guy.
Oh, wait. I do.
I was in a fountain.
“Are you just, like, popping in and asking for applications?”
I stop. “Is that a bad idea?” My stupid insecurity, and possibly my age, is showing.
He shrugs. “No, not at all. It just depends on what kind of job you want, I guess. Mostly everything’s done online.”
“I’m not looking for a career here,” I say. “Just a job. A coffee shop, retail, or maybe the Lincoln Park Zoo?”
He chuckles. “The zoo?”
“Yeah.” I smile. “It looked kind of fun. And, I don’t know, different.”
“You’re looking for different,” he says. Not a question but a conclusion.
My gaze falls. “I don’t have a lot of work experience. And I . . .” I look for a way to say something without saying everything. “I maybe just don’t know exactly what I want. Yet.”
He seems to consider this. “Hmm. Well, okay then. I’m coming with.”
“What?” I gasp. “No!”
“I’ll just put my shoes on.” He starts to back away. “Don’t leave.”
“You really don’t have to do that!” I call after him.
He disappears inside, leaving me standing there trying to decide if I should wait or run.
I’m thinking the latter.
After all, I’ll be the third woman in the past two days he’s walked to the gate.