Chapter 21
Tanner’s apartment complex is nice.
Like one of those complexes only the richest people can afford. Every surface in the main entrance is made of marble—the reception desk and the complimentary coffee bar counter tucked away in the corner for visitors. Everything in the main office space screams money and I almost turn around and walk right out the door.
When I came over a few days ago, I was too anxious to take in my surroundings, but now that I somewhat understand the lay of the land, it’s not as intimidating.
Hence why I’m currently standing in the middle of the lobby, admiring every shiny or fancy piece of furniture in my view. Thankfully it’s after hours so I don’t have to check in with anybody, but I have a feeling there’s so many people who live in this building that it would be hard to differentiate between guests and residents. Seeing how I stick out like a sore thumb, I’d probably be the exception to that rule.
The few people that have walked past me in the five-minute span I’ve been here are high-heeled, slicked-back hair, business suite attire. If I had to guess, people working in the business district live here. It would make sense, seeing how Opulent Peaks is downtown and closest to transportation. I live only a few blocks awat in more of the urban, artsy area, and I’d take that over the suits and ties anyday.
Pushing away my awe for now, I start walking past the reception desk towards the main elevators and hit the up arrow button.
While I wait, I glance around my surroundings and notice artwork that looks like it’s from the mid-century, hanging in various shapes and sizes. I can’t help but think about each painter and what their methods were in making such unique art. How different times were to be able to have a job lost in creativity. I sigh wistfully and wonder what my life would look like doing something different than graphic design. I love many parts of my job and hate the parts I can’t control, like working under somebody else’s time and not having as much flexibility during my week to do things for myself. One day, I’ll be my own boss, but until then, I need to keep my head down and focus on the ahead.
When the elevator finally dings on my floor, I step forward, press button nine, and shift so I’m leaning against the railing on the back portion of the elevator. Even the inside of the elevator is coated in brass, and I have to squint when I pull my phone out because everything is so shiny.
I texted Tanner to give him a heads-up when I got here, but I have yet to hear from him. I’m trying to keep my anxious thoughts at bay like maybe he changed his mind about dinner, which I was already hesitant to attend. Tanner doesn’t give off the vibe that he would cancel last-minute plans unless it were an emergency, but the critic in my head tries convincing me that maybe he doesn’t want me to come over. Or that he was only inviting me because he felt obligated since we are friends.
That word still annoys me.
Taking a deep breath, the nerves start ricocheting in my stomach the longer I’m in this brass box. It’s climbing higher and higher, the numbers six, seven, and eight passing by quicker than I’m giving myself time to prepare for, and when the elevator finally lands on nine, the doors slide open, and the hallway greets me. Another mid-century portrait is directly in front of my vision; this one is an oil canvas of irises. The purple and blue hues center me enough that I’m ready to step out of the elevator and start walking down the corridor.
There aren’t any sounds coming from the apartments, and the air is thick, making this place feel less than comfortable—empty, almost—but maybe the people living here don’t mind. Either way, I know I’d never live in a place that feels so ghostly.
I wonder how Tanner feels about living here.
I finally step in front of his door and rapt on the door, taking a small step back in case I need to make an escape. I’m still convinced he isn’t home because, like everybody else’s apartment, no noises are echoing from the inside, but the door pulls open before I have a chance to finish my thought.
Tanner’s freshly showered, at least by the looks of his recently slicked and styled wet hair, and the top of his shirt is slightly damp. Not as if he forgot to dry himself, but like he didn’t have enough time to do a thorough job. Even in the simplest manner, he looks good. He wears dark wash jeans that are slightly baggy on his thighs, and I force my face to remain neutral when I look down and notice his bare feet. He looks both casual and comfortable, yet so attractive that I find my gaze lingering on the broadness of his chest and the tapered waist. When I meet his eyes again, I notice his phone is cocked against his ear, but a smirk forms on his lips, pulling out the dimple in his left cheek. Green eyes sparkle as he gazes over my own appearance, and heat flares across my cheeks.
“Hey,” he grins, quickly pulling the speaker away from his mouth and gesturing for me to step inside. “I’ll be just a second. My mom called.”
My heart warms at the admission, and I dip my head before walking past him, toeing off my shoes. I’m shimmying off my jacket when warmth touches either of my arms, following the movement of removing my jacket. Heat flares up my arms, and I suppress a shudder, glancing over my shoulder to find his gaze on mine, the emerald color darkening. That damn smirk hasn’t left his lips, and with a subtle wink he breaks eye contact, hanging my coat on the rack behind him.
“Hey, Mom,” he begins, nodding for me to head into the kitchen with him. “I gotta go. I have company over.”
“Oh, company? Is this Daisy company?” I hear from the line, and I roll my lips into my mouth so I don’t laugh.
Tanner playfully rolls his eyes and rests his phone against his shoulder as he walks over to the island, picking up some fancy serrated knife before swiftly chopping potatoes. “Yeah, she’s here. So I’m going to get going, and I’ll see you this weekend, okay?”
While he’s wrapping up his phone call, I walk into the living room and fully take in the setting. His apartment is nice with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and for a brief moment, I wonder what it’d be like to paint the city from this view or to look at the sunsets and sunrises from here. I don’t belong in a place like this, but I can’t help the nagging jealousy tugging in my gut. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love my own apartment, but this is incredible beyond anything I’ve ever seen.
“Sorry about that.” The deep timbre of Tanner’s voice ignites through my body. “I was going to come down and get you when you got here, but my mom wanted to chat for a bit even though I saw her yesterday,” he chuckles.
I can’t help the smile that appears as I turn to look at him. He’s standing at the kitchen counter with a serrated knife in one hand, and a potato in the other, yet all of his focus remains on me.
“I’m assuming you’re close to her?”
He nods, the smile only widening. “Yeah, I’d say so, anyway. Brooke and I usually hang out with our parents every Sunday now that I’m back home.”
I hum, walking through his living room and taking in the photos lining his walls. I did this on Saturday, but looking at them a second time helps distract me from the re-surfacing anxiety I’m currently feeling being alone with him. Plus, it’s admittedly kind of cute how close he is to his family.
Normally a bitter taste would form in my mouth thinking about somebody’s relationship with their family, mainly because I am not close to anybody in mine. Even when I was younger, there was never a time I felt comfortable being around my family. My mom and I never saw eye-to-eye, often getting blamed for shit that was never my fault because I was simply a child, and my dad is fairly nonexistent. Our relationship has grown the older I’ve gotten, but I still carry some of the hurt he’s caused by not being there when I needed him.
But that bitter taste isn’t there at all when Tanner talks about his family. There’s a brief stint of melancholy over the missed opportunities with my own family, but knowing that he is able to lean on his family for support makes me happy.
Tanner clears his throat, and I catch a glimpse of red hinting along his cheeks. “Sorry.”
I furrow my brows. “For what?”
He shrugs, setting the knife down. Picking up the cutting board the potatoes are on, he walks over the stove and drops them into the pot. “I should be trying to impress you, and instead I’m talking about how big of a momma’s boy I am.”
My eyebrows raise, and thankfully his back is facing me because I rear my head in surprise. “Impress me? Why would you need to do that?”
Another shrug. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Um,” I glance around as if somebody else can answer the question although I’m the only one here besides Tanner. “Because I’m…me?” I say this as if it’s the most obvious statement in the world, and Tanner pauses what he’s doing to turn around so he’s facing me. His head tilts curiously. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, slowly walking into the kitchen, suddenly becoming shy. “There’s no reason to, I guess?” I find a chair underneath his island and pull it out, sliding onto it.
He hums, spinning around to open a bag of carrots before dropping them into the pot. “I disagree with that,” he says. “You’re kind of a big deal.”
I bark out a laugh and shake my head, resting my palm under my chin. “And I’m not sure I entirely agree with that.”
“No?” he quips, looking over his shoulder before grabbing the ladle and stirring whatever is in the pot. “Why not?”
I shrug, trying to fight off the discomfort over the amount of questions he’s asking in attempt to get to know me. I’m quiet for a moment as I try figuring out how to admit to him what is hard for me to acknowledge to myself.
“I don’t think I’m special enough to be considered a ‘big deal’,” I say with air quotes.
Although I can’t see his initial reaction because he’s facing away from me, his back muscles tense, and his head still jerks back. He turns around, a look of sadness painted across his face.
“Why would you say that?”
Another shrug with a frown. “Is it not true?”
He frowns, mimicking me, except he seems genuinely bothered by my statement whereas I’m not. “No Daisy,” he says sternly. “It’s not.”
The air tenses between us as he works through his thoughts, seemingly upset now. I can’t decide whether to follow-up and make sure he’s okay or let him have space to process whatever he’s working out in his head. When I acknowledge how I feel about myself to somebody else, it sounds worse than what it is. Which makes me sad because I know I’m downplaying my self-esteem. It’s something I’ve been working on with my therapist, but I’ve never had to confront it in front of somebody.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip.
He gaze snaps to mine, eyebrows furrowing. “Sorry?” he asks, his face scrunching in confusion. “Why are you apologizing?”
“Feels like I should be,” I admit truthfully.
He shakes his head in disbelief. “Daisy, I’m sorry that anybody’s ever made you feel like you were less than, because you’re more than enough. Always have been, always will be.”
I blink a few times wordlessly, wrapping my head around the words shared in the space between us. I glance away the moment my throat constricts with emotion. The admission that I’m enough—more than enough—is hard to hear. Mainly because I can’t recall the last time anybody has said that to me, so I silently nod, hoping it’s enough for him.
He doesn’t elaborate further or ask more questions, instead just nodding to himself before turning back around and stirring the food.