Chapter 30
ENZO
Knight security checked Molly’s apartment building as soon as we landed in Chicago.
There were no press, no suspicious vehicles, nothing to suggest anyone had traced Molly's address.
But Molly isn’t her usual self.
It could be because it’s been a long, grueling, day, because she’s shaken. She barely spoke on the flight, or during the drive from the airport.
I tried to make conversation, but she only gave me short answers. Maybe she’s exhausted, but something tells me it’s more than that.
That she doesn’t want me in her space.
The SUV comes to a stop outside a quiet street. Molly doesn’t have much luggage. Just the one rucksack she carried, and I gave her a small trolley bag for the clothes—disguises included—that my assistant ordered. I roll both our trolley bags and follow her in.
“This is my humble abode.” She puts her key into the lock and pushes the door open, then walks inside. She turns around. “I have to warn you—my place is ... chaotic.” She makes a face like she's in pain.
But it’s the first sign of her returning to the Molly I know.
“It’s lived in,” I offer, following her inside. I'm expecting chaos but as I slowly survey everything, it’s not.
She yawns then turns the light on. I set our luggage to one side and look around.
What I see is a homey, comfy place which is lived in, just as I assumed.
I catch sight of a purple sneaker lying on its side under a chair.
A cardigan hangs over a sofa and an oddly misshapen handmade mug sits beside a stack of children's story books.
A small table sits next to a two-seater couch with a bright red throw over it.
An assortment of plants in different colored and different sized plant pots are arranged along the windowsill.
I raise my brow. “You look like you left in a hurry.” It looks like she literally dropped everything and raced out, but I don’t say that to her.
“I … uh … I didn’t, actually … I’ll quickly tidy up.” She moves around at speed, but she’s not making anything tidy. She’s simply rearranging everything.
I move towards her, and take her hands in mine to stop her. I can’t tell if it’s the adrenaline, the over tiredness, or if it’s me being in her space.
“It’s late. You don’t have to do this now,” I tell her.
She yawns. “I can see the stress on your face. You line up everything. Even your pens and pencils.”
This is true. It would explain her being stressed about me being here. That’s the last thing I wanted to do—pile more worry on her.
“Please don’t worry about it,” I plead. “You don’t have to tidy up to impress me.”
“I’m not trying to impress you.” But her voice has a wobble in it. I glance at my watch. It’s two in the morning. No wonder.
“It’s late. You should get some rest. Leave this. It doesn’t matter. I promise not to judge you.”
“It’s a mess, I know.” She watches me as I look around her apartment again.
“This isn't messy,” I say, trying to sound convincing as my eyes go to the laundry drying on a rack near the window.
Everything is loved and old and homely and used and lived in. It’s nothing like mine. My place is immaculate. Rio says it’s museum-like. It's almost untouched. Everything is organized and in order. It looks uninhabited, whereas Molly’s apartment breathes. It's a living microcosm of something.
I find myself wondering how anybody could be this comfortable with such a mess. Though it’s not really a mess, it is—as Molly would say—organized chaos.
“How do you ever … find anything.”
She guffaws loudly. “I don't. I just wait until it finds me.”
This makes me laugh out loud. What a different way of looking at things. I follow her into the kitchen.
“Would you like some tea or something?” she asks over her shoulder as she heads for the refrigerator. “Coconut water?” She holds the carton in her hand. “Brimming with electrolytes.”
“Electrolytes?”
“We all need electrolytes otherwise our brains shrivel.”
I almost spit out my drink. “That's not it.”
“Maybe it’s our muscles.”
I don't even bother to correct her.
She lifts her glass and downs her drink in one go. “I needed that. I feel rejuvenated.”
She's never not rejuvenated.
I used to think a well-ordered life was a peaceful life, with everything in its place and everything in order. But seeing Molly in her apartment, navigating around the space as if everything belongs exactly where it is, I wonder if I've mistaken quiet for happiness.
“It’s two in the morning. Aren’t you tired?”
“I’m still on spring break.” She pauses. “I expect it will be business as usual for you?”
All thoughts about work disappeared from my mind hours ago. Tomorrow hasn’t crossed my mind either.
The only thing that has is knowing that I’ll wake up in Molly’s apartment, and that’s something I never saw coming. She looks flustered, one arm across her belly, the other crossed over it. She cups her jaw, looking thoughtful. “I only have this one couch.”
I look at the couch.
It’s small.
“It will be fine,” I tell her.
But it isn’t fine.
Hours pass and I can’t sleep. My feet hang over the armrest, and I’ve been tossing. Not turning. Just tossing and moving around. It’s uncomfortable when I turn on my side. I mostly lie on my back. Though ‘lie’ doesn’t accurately describe it. Torture would be a more apt word.
And I can Molly in the bedroom.
This apartment is small and cramped, and I can hear her walking around. Is she unpacking at this time?
I hear the doors cranking in the flat below me.
My feet hang over the armrest. My neck already hurts. Somewhere nearby, a door slams and pipes groan through the wall.
I should hate this.
Instead, lying cramped and uncomfortable on Molly's tiny couch, listening to her move around in the bedroom, I’m strangely content.
And I don't understand why.