Chapter 4 #2
I quickly move past him to the hallway and enter the first door to the left.
“Whoa.” I look around the space, which isn’t small at all.
The near black, wood vanity is the only thing in the room that’s dark.
There’s a circular mirror trimmed in gold, matching wall sconces on each side of the mirror, and a mini chandelier hanging high from the tall ceiling.
I’m in awe. I don’t know if I can pee in such a grand space.
But I manage and then thoroughly wash my hands.
As I make my way to the living room, my steps stutter as I catch sight of the wall of windows. “Gag me,” I whisper to myself as my stomach turns over.
Patrick turns around, two glasses and a bottle of white wine in his hands. “I thought I’d open the curtains so you can see the city and Lake Michigan from up here.”
Between my naivety in the back room at The Limelight, my comments about affording his apartment, my sore feet, getting flustered in the elevator and now this, Patrick is going to think I’m a dork and want nothing more to do with me.
I try to find something positive to say.
“I don’t know about the lake but the view of the city is awesome.
” I’m not able to look away from the view.
Like watching a wreck, the scene is making me nauseous but I can’t turn away from it.
Patrick hands me a glass. “I hope you like chardonnay.”
“Thanks,” I say, and silently groan. Another strike against me, but I don’t tell him that I’m not really a wine drinker. Actually, I don’t normally drink at all. I don’t like the feeling of wooziness I get from alcohol.
“Please, have a seat.” Patrick sits at one end of a massive royal blue sectional with yellow cushions. There are several yellow chairs that match the pillows on the sectional, and I take a seat on the one closest to Patrick.
My nerves are gnarled up with anxiety, and I take a sip of wine hoping it will help settle them. I want Patrick to like me. And I hope through our talking, we find there might be something between us. I hope.
“So,” we say in unison. We laugh… Again, at the same time.
“Jamie says you work for Arthur Andersen.”
“Yes. For a year now,” I say, taking another sip. “And you’re with Jamie at Prudential?”
“No. I work for the Chicago Board Options Exchange—I thought you knew that.”
“No. I didn’t. For how long?”
“For about two years now. I love the challenge with the new IBM computers we’re implementing.” The passion for his job shines through his words. I wonder if he’s like that with all things.
“Computers?” I ask, placing the glass on the coaster. “What do you do there?”
“I input the daily numbers, especially at the end of the day.” Patrick smiles, taking another sip of his wine and then putting the glass down. “I find it challenging. Are numbers hard for you?”
I laugh, getting his meaning as to why he asked me about numbers. “I love numbers. I aced all my accounting classes, especially calculus and statistics. They come easy to me.” I shrug.
“Tell me what you like to do for fun.” Patrick stands and opens up the slider to the balcony. “Come out with me. The breeze feels good.”
I gulp, pick up my glass and suck some of the wine back for courage.
Then I set the glass back on the coaster, stand and meet him at the threshold of the slider and balcony.
“You’re right. The wind does feel good.” Slightly cool for July, but still warm enough that it doesn’t give me chills even at this height. No… your chills are all from inside.
“Come out here. I swear, we won’t fall down.” He takes my hand and leads me out to the edge where I can see a lot more of the city below. I can also barely breathe as I take in the lake—or what I can see of it.
“Do you know I’m afraid of heights?” I squeak, now shivering, and I have to step back.
“Oh man, I’m sorry. Your brother never said. Here.” Patrick wraps his arms around me and moves me back through the slider. “Have a seat. You look pale.”
Pale? I have such a death grip on his shirt that he’ll probably never get the wrinkles out. I refuse to sit, though. Something about the warmth of his body against mine is easing the tremors. “May I have a glass of water?”
“Yes, once you release me,” he says gently.
“Okay,” I reply but don’t let him go.
“Jillian?”
“Yes?” I look up, and I realize that his head is tipped toward me and his face is so close to mine.
“You have to let me go so I can get you water,” he whispers. His breath is laced with wine.
“I know.”
“But you are still gripping my shirt.”
“I know.”
He must feel the same attraction that I do, because right then, he leans farther in and kisses me. So sweet. So gentle. A flutter of desire rushes through me and I want more. But then he pulls back and studies my face.
“Why did you stop?” I ask boldly, but also slightly disappointed that he pulled back.
“To check in with you. You look like you’re about to ralph,” he says.
“And if I don’t?”
“What are you saying, Jillian?”
Here goes. It’s now or never. I straighten and release his shirt, but I don’t move other than to smooth the wrinkled fabric over his chest. I need the contact so I can be brave. “I like you, Patrick.”
“That’s good. I like you too, Jillian.”
“No. You don’t understand. I really, really like you, Patrick.
I’ve liked you from the second I met you the day you first came to our apartment.
I liked it when you said my name. I like it when you laugh at my brother, because he can be a total bonehead sometimes.
I look forward to seeing you every time Jamie says you’re coming over.
I purposefully wait until you arrive before I leave to go see my friends, so I can look at you.
I like you so much that it hurts sometimes to think about it.
But love shouldn’t hurt—should it?” Realizing what I just said, my eyes widen and I slap my hand over my mouth.
I stumble backwards until the backs of my legs hit the yellow chair.
The stunned look on Patrick’s face tells me all I need to know. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
I take off toward the powder room, lock myself inside and burst into tears.
I plaster my body against the far wall before I slide down and cover my face with both hands.
Wetness coats my palms and I become even more mortified when I realize that I was crying while I was revealing all of my stalker-ish feelings to him.
I pull toilet paper from the fancy gold-toned holder, wipe my cheeks and blow my nose.
Bet this room has never seen someone as pathetic as I am.
Now I’m stuck in here, with no way to escape. What am I going to do?