Chapter 3
Loreena
Maybe this is all a huge mistake. Four years of writing.
Leaving my address and number. Responding to Maverick’s texts.
Agreeing to let him come here. I did hope that maybe he’d never ask, but it seemed like it was the first thing he did.
Cutting him out of my life is unthinkable, even if it’s better for him.
After I talked to Sylvie, I had this terrible feeling that doing something like that would be taking the coward’s way out, or that he’d misunderstand and think that it was all him.
Hurting him like that would haunt me forever.
I keep telling myself that he doesn’t have to know. I invited him to my apartment. There’s no reason for him to learn about my situation. Eventually, though, he’ll find out. I’m only prolonging the inevitable if I don’t tell him.
I’ve been panicking about it all morning.
I’ve been panicking about it for days.
I should have done this all differently. I could have waited and asked Sylvie to be here. I keep telling myself that I don’t have to answer the buzzer. I don’t have to answer the door. I can pretend that I’m not home. Make up some emergency. Reschedule for a time that never comes.
Why is it that no matter how much therapy you’ve had, it all gets forgotten the second you’re plunged into a crisis?
I know what this is. I know why I’m freaking out.
If I sat down in front of my laptop with Dr. Munford, I could calmly explain all of this.
But like every time I try to go more than a step from the building’s glass door, my mind refuses to think of any of that.
The only thing I can process is how bad it’s going to be.
My body goes to war against me, telling my brain to shut it down to survival mode, and so it does.
I grasp the edge of the kitchen counter, my fingers hanging over the lip of the sink.
I duck my face down, close my eyes, and force myself to remember the breathing exercises that I’ve been doing for years.
They don’t work outside, but I’m not outside.
I’m standing in my kitchen. This isn’t a panic attack.
It’s just nerves. I have every right to be anxious and edgy.
For four years, I’ve felt seen. I’ve been heard.
I’ve made myself known in ways that I couldn’t do with any other person.
If Maverick meets me in person and finds me wanting in any way, if he rejects me and scorns me, I can’t even fathom how much it will hurt.
My mind keeps going there and skirting away from the edges of that black void of pain.
I force oxygen in and out of my lungs, knowing that the more I do it, the deeper it goes, the count that I hold in between each inhale and exhale, will eventually start working. My body will respond. I just have to give it time.
After a few moments, I finally get to a state where my brain starts to give me the flipside of the argument. Instead of failure, there’s something else. A gentle acceptance. A man who listens as well in person, who gets me like he did in his letters.
The apartment is already spotless. I chose a long black velvet skirt, flats, and an oversized button up cardigan.
It’s too much. Probably too pretty, but after I spent hours trying to decide what to wear, I’m not going to change.
I spent another hour and a half curling my hair before I decided it was also too much and brushed the curls out into loose waves.
I usually don’t bother with makeup, but I wanted that small buffer against me and the world, all my emotions laid out naked on my face.
I didn’t overdo it, but there’s nothing more to do.
I’m ready.
The apartment is ready.
The cookies I baked last night are arranged nicely on a plate on top of the counter. The kettle is full of water for tea, the coffee maker too. I could go try and do some work, but I know I won’t be able to focus. I don’t want to make a mistake on something so important just because I’m distracted.
I take a chair out of the kitchen and set it right by the door. I plop down, cross my legs, fold my arms over my chest, and rock forward. I’m right by the buzzer.
We agreed on eleven. I still have forty minutes to wait.
I don’t know how I’m going to make it. That’s a fuck of a lot of deep breathing to have to do.
I start anyway.
Either I drift into my breaths, or the buzzer goes off early. My phone is on the table. I don’t rush to grab it and check the time. It’s not like I’m going to make him wait outside until exactly eleven.
There’s no screen that shows who’s there.
It’s an old, outdated buzzer, like most of this apartment.
The building is decent, though, and the rent is affordable.
I was living here while I was paying tuition, trying to stretch student loans, and taking what online freelance work I could find, in just about any area.
I kept the place after for… uh… obvious reasons.
I don’t ask who it is. There’s only one person it could be.
My body wants to go straight back into a bad nervous reaction, but I shoot up, wipe my damp palms on my skirt, and force myself to breathe as I press the buzzer to open the front door. I breathe. Wait. Inhale. Exhale.
My hand shoots out and gropes for the wall beside the buzzer.
I press my palm down against the cool surface, focusing on the slightly raised texture, the little bump where something was repainted over, or the paint gooped up.
I close my eyes, wanting to run, wanting to hide, wanting to be bold and step forward and open the door before Maverick even gets to the top of those three flights of stairs.
Is he taking them two at a time? Picking his way up painfully slowly, hesitating with every step?
Did he bring something? What do I do if he brought flowers?
Friends can bring friends flowers. Do other people feel this way, when they know someone intimately, and are known in return, but only ever on paper?
How many people have met face to face and found that the person they thought they knew was completely different?
It’s better to try and be disappointed than to let the fear of disappointment that may never come overwhelm me. I know that. I know it. It’s just so hard to fully believe it.
Before I can self-destruct, the fire door at the top of the stairway opens and closes. I hear his steps in the hall.
I wish I could be the woman I was in my letters. Wise. Constant. Somewhat normal, but this is real life and I’m all over the place. How can I just pretend that everything is okay or even hope that all will be well? Talking myself into this offered a false sense of security and serenity.
He doesn’t have to knock. I slide the chain lock off the door, undo the deadbolt, and twist the lock on the handle. When I open the door, he freezes right in front of it.
I almost blurt out the whole truth right then, before Maverick can even utter a single word, but it’s more than just the fact of how crazy that would be that keeps me silent. I’d like to cling to whatever peace I might have, whatever goodness, for just a few more moments.
Also, this is Maverick.
Real. In person. Here.
All I had was that ten-year-old mugshot photo of him.
I’d wondered endlessly what Maverick would look like after a decade, and a hard one at that.
How he would have aged or been aged. How the years sat.
A mugshot isn’t flattering by any means, but his likely caused quite a furor.
No one agreed with his conviction and knowing that while what he did was illegal, it was also morally correct, makes it easier to admit to the stark masculine beauty apparent in what should have been a terrible photo.
Ten years later, the effortless good looks of his early twenties have solidified into something older, wiser, and infinitely more intriguing.
He’s taller than I imagined, even though I could see the height labelled in his photo.
He’s far broader. He’s put on weight, but it’s all muscle.
I remember how many times he wrote about working out being such a salvation.
His high cheekbones stand out prominently over slightly hollow cheeks.
His jawline is harder and more sculpted, but his nose is still straight and perfect.
In that photo, his eyes were so deep brown that they bordered on black.
I thought it was just the lighting, but it wasn’t.
He has the softest, dark velvet eyes. Two small scars stand out, one along his jawline, the other bisecting his right eyebrow.
They weren’t there before, but they only enhance his hard, carved out allure.
Rugged would probably be closer to the correct term, but he’s not a lumberjack.
Stone, but he’s no statue.
He’s too alive, too vital, throwing too much heat for that. He smells good too. Like fresh cedar wood shavings. The scent immediately brings me back to my dad’s workshop. He used to turn wood when I was younger, before life sucked the joy and the desire for hobbies right out of him.
“Hi.” My voice is reed thin.
He could easily blame it on the nerves, but he takes one step closer.
He jams his hands into the pockets of a worn leather jacket.
It’s unzipped even though it’s cold out, revealing a black t-shirt below.
His faded jeans and heavy black boots give the impression that he’s already been welcomed into his cousin’s biker club.
His eyes dart over my shoulder, roaming through the living room and taking a sharp turn to the kitchen as though he expects an ambush. He’s trained for it. Knowing his surroundings has meant the difference between getting jumped, shanked, or having other unspeakable violence done to him.
His gaze collides with mine and he immediately looks abashed. I know what he’s doing, and he knows that I know. Two hard lines appear between his brows, but then he gives me a sheepish smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look almost boyish.