Chapter 5
I’m muttering under my breath as I make my way back into the courtyard, a mere ten minutes from when I left it, when I see
a tall, beautiful woman with long blonde hair standing outside the apartment directly across from mine.
It’s the barefoot guy’s apartment.
The same apartment where I just saw a different woman leaving when I was on the phone with Minnie.
Multiple women makes me think of John. And automatically makes me despise Miles, even if he did create this beautiful courtyard.
This woman must’ve already knocked because the door opens and Miles, no longer barefoot, appears. At the sight of her, he
smiles, opens his arms, and pulls her into a tight hug.
As he does, his eyes meet mine, and I force myself to look away. What do I care if my across-the-courtyard neighbor is a middle-aged
man who has a thing for much younger women?
Still, I dare one more glance in his direction, and I’m pretty sure I’m doing a bad job of hiding my annoyance.
Knock it off, Claire. This is none of your business.
I unlock my door and duck inside, close the curtains, and exhale a long breath.
I walk over to my table, grab my journal, and add a new item under number eight.
Now the list reads . . .
I want to do the things that scare me.
Have a meal by myself. In public.
Strike up a conversation with a stranger.
Try new foods I’ve never had or can’t pronounce.
And the new one . . .
Download dating app.
I don’t have to open it or anything. I just need to put it on my phone. That feels like plenty. Because if I do ever fall for someone again, it’s not going to be anytime soon.
I walk into the small first-floor bathroom and flip on the light. I’m slightly disheveled after my walk, my hair windblown
and my cheeks pink.
I look at my reflection, smoothing my hair and thinking again how badly I need to get to a salon. “That’s what you should
do, Claire. Something nice for yourself. You deserve it.” I lean forward, noticing my skin could also use a refresh.
When John and I were married, my appearance was a part of my job, but now I can take care of my hair and skin simply because
I want to. For me.
I can even change my look if I want to.
I’m thankful to learn that with some diligent plucking and my new best friend—root cover-up—I’ve been able to keep the gray
away, and as I stare at myself, I think maybe Claire 2.0 will be less fussy. More natural. More relaxed.
And just like that, I know how to spend the night. To rescue it from the feeling of failure that followed me home.
Maybe I’m not ready to go out to eat alone, but I can still cross one thing off my list.
Try new foods I’ve never had or can’t pronounce.
God bless Lorraine. After I met her the first time, she showed up at my door the next morning with a stack of takeout menus and said, “Life’s too short for bad takeout.”
As I grab the stack and flip through the menus, I realize how narrow my food experience has been. I’ve never had Indian, or
Thai, or Mediterranean, or numerous other kinds of food represented by this pile of menus.
John was a bland, boring, picky eater, so I was too.
I bristle at that thought. He did X, so I did X. I can practically hear my grandmother asking about bridges and jumping off.
What if I love spicy food? Or find Moroccan to be amazing? What if falafel becomes my new favorite meal or I discover I could
happily eat hummus on everything?
A risky thought hits me, totally in line with this rush of “newness” I’m feeling. I spread out all of the menus on the counter,
close my eyes, and mix them up like a pile shuffle before a game of Go Fish.
Keeping my eyes closed, I fumble around until I land on one, pull it out of the pile, and open my eyes.
MingHin Cuisine.
On it, there’s a sticky note on which Lorraine has written: Authentic and delicious! She’s circled the Dim sum in permanent marker.
MingHin Cuisine and Dim sum it is.
I tap the Grubhub icon on my phone and order three times as much food as I’ll be able to eat. Chaozhou dumplings with pork.
Mongolian beef. Chiu Chow marinated duck. Mixed vegetable lo mein. Pan-fried taro cake.
Probably enough to feed the whole building. Frivolous? Maybe. But I’ve never heard of any of these and I’m conquering fears
here.
And maybe once I trust myself with these silly little decisions, I’ll trust myself with big decisions too.
I add instructions for the driver to leave my food at the door, pour myself a glass of wine, and walk upstairs.
There, in an opened box that is still half unpacked, are products I purchased at the spa the last time I went.
They’re probably all expired, but they were too overwhelming to use and too expensive to throw away, so they got a first-class ticket to Chicago in the back seat of my Jeep.
I pull the packing tape off a smaller box and find bath salts and lotions, a moisturizing mud mask and a deep-conditioning
hair treatment.
“Jackpot.”
Less than an hour later, I’m standing in my short pink robe, a coating of deep conditioner in my hair, and a thick, green
mud mask hardening on my face when my phone dings.
Your food has been delivered.
On cue, my stomach growls, and I’m inexplicably excited about the smorgasbord of new dishes to try.
I creep down the stairs and peek outside, and when I’m sure the courtyard is clear, I open the door a crack.
I kneel down and start feeling around, like I’m blindly searching for a contact lens in the dark, but the only thing there
is my welcome mat. I open the door a little wider and poke my head out, looking for the bag of food, but there’s nothing here.
I stand, tighten the belt of my robe, and step outside. I do a quick search of the area and see three large white bags by
the entrance to the courtyard.
I groan. They brought the food as far as the building but decided it wasn’t necessary to actually set it in front of my door.
Perfect.
I look around. I’m not going to go back inside and get dressed when I still have to shower and wash the conditioner out of
my hair, so I opt for the quick dash to the front gate instead.
I pull the door to my apartment closed and run toward the front gate. I pick up all three bags, then turn and rush back, doing my best to keep the belt of my robe secure while carrying enough food to feed the entire offensive line of the Chicago Bears.
I make it to my apartment, but when I twist the doorknob, it doesn’t turn.
I crank it again. Nothing.
The door is locked.
Stupidly, I try it a third time, as if I somehow operated the doorknob wrong the first two times.
Not surprisingly, it’s still locked.
One of the bags slips, and as I go to catch it, my hand catches on the belt of my robe, loosening it just enough to take the
whole scene into rated R territory.
At that exact moment, I hear the sound of a door opening across the courtyard.
Because of course now is precisely when my womanizing neighbor has decided to say good night to his second (third? fifth?) date of the day.
I duck around the side of the building, behind one of the bushes, clutching the bags and doing my best to hold my robe together
while my fingers tangle in the plastic loops of the takeout bags.
I look around, frantic, trying to find a way back inside.
But I freeze when the man—Miles—walks the beautiful blonde out to the front gate. They’re chatting happily, unaware that only
yards away, there’s a semi-naked, green-faced woman with three bags of pork dumplings in the bushes.
The memory of the night in the fountain rushes back. I should be used to getting caught in compromising situations, but I’m
not.
Sweat gathers along my brow and upper lip, and I feel a piece of the green mud mask crack and fall right off my face.
I’ve got to get back inside.
The bushes scratch my bare legs as I move toward the back door, the one in the laundry room that opens to the small garbage area. I know the door is locked because I double-checked it before I left, but I try the handle anyway.
It doesn’t turn.
I step back and study the exterior of my apartment, wishing the window in the laundry room wasn’t so high or that I was the
kind of person who knew how to scale the side of a brick building.
Unfortunately, it is and I’m not, which means I’m completely, wholly, and 100 percent stuck.
And the one person who might know how to get me out of this mess is in the apartment that’s the farthest away from mine across
a fairly well-lit courtyard where a potentially handsome neighbor with questionable moral character stands.
I sneak back to my previous hiding spot and check the front gate again, just in time to see the young, perky woman wrap her
arms around Miles and hug him. He pats her back in another surprisingly platonic gesture, and she walks away.
Two awkwardly benign send-offs. Weird.
One of the bags starts to spin and slip, and I grab haphazardly to get a better grip, throwing off my balance. My foot catches
on something hard—a rock maybe—and I let out what can only be described as a yelp.
Because I’m the perpetual butt of a giant cosmic joke, this happens just as Miles is turning back. He freezes, eyes trained
right on the spot where I’m standing, which I only now realize is right underneath an exterior light. A familiar sense of
dread threads through me as I step out of the beam of light, hoping that the bushes conceal my hiding place in spite of it.
I go still, pressing my back into the brick wall of the building, and screw my eyes shut, praying that this guy has the eyesight
of a T. rex, and if I stay still, he won’t be able to see me.
The traitorous belt on my flimsy robe slips.
Eyes still shut, I slowly raise the bags higher. Noodles and egg rolls are now all that stands between the world and my naughty
bits.
I slowly count to five, then open my eyes.
I exhale a long, slow breath of relief, because all I see in front of me is an empty sidewalk. Maybe my luck in these situations
is finally starting to turn.