Chapter 7
seven
Hours later, I’m still staring at Evan’s text, angry. I can’t help it. He doesn’t even know me. I don’t even know me.
I set the cell phone down and scan the city.
From my balcony view, buildings rise in jagged shapes against the night sky.
There’s a flurry of movement on nearby streets.
Yellow taxis and black sedans whiz past with electric streaks of red and white taillights.
My balcony perch is mostly quiet except for faint honking horns, the rumble of an airplane making its descent to O’Hare, and a low, throbbing hum from the city that never ceases.
That is, until Evan’s voice pierces the night.
It’s in the distance, but I pick out his low timbre.
Hearing it causes an unexplainable rumble in my own body, and I lean forward to search for him.
He appears from behind a grouping of trees with Mrs. Venti.
Evan has one arm wrapped around a brown bag of groceries, and with the other, he pulls a metal cart.
She’s recounting all her aches and pains as they amble down the sidewalk.
Judging by his clothes, he was out for a run.
On other occasions, I’ve seen him return to the building a sweaty mess.
He must have seen her and stopped to help.
In typical Mrs. Venti fashion, she’s sporting her nightclothes—a flowered muumuu and her baby-blue foam slippers.
A scarf wraps around her tight purple curls.
The edges of her shoes are dirty from running errands around the city.
He assists her up the stairs and inside.
After, he wrangles the wire cart up five marble steps and into the corridor.
With my slider door open, there’s an echo of noise from inside the building’s hallway.
In my mind’s eye, the images fall into time with the sounds.
He’ll guide her up the stairs to her apartment on the second floor and help put away the food.
I’ve seen him do it before. One night when he left the door open, I glanced in to find Evan picking canned goods from a grocery bag and organizing everything in her pantry.
He can be nice when he wants, which I suspect is more often than he admits. For some reason, he plays it conceited when I’m around, almost like he knows it will repel me.
My cell buzzes with a text from Aggie. When I swipe through, there’s one photo attached—a selfie of her and Charlie, very cozy against the backdrop of the tiki bar, each of them holding neon-yellow frozen drinks.
I bring my knees to my chest and steady the cell on them, staring at the photo.
She’s doing what she set out to. Watching her live without fear or regret triggers something inside me.
There’s one emotion I can identify—jealousy.
Not in the catty way, but a longing to be released from always needing control and working through every scenario and every consequence, which kills any possibility of experiencing anything.
I live my personal life in the after perpetually scared, and I hate it.
I do have a reason, but I refuse to allow my mind to drift there.
I abandon my serene view, head for my bedroom, and change into my running gear.
Soon I’m out the door, jogging east toward the lake.
Some of the nervous habits I have, like a jittery leg or a tapping foot, occupy my mind temporarily, but running frees my mind of negative thoughts for the longest time.
It’s my best defense against depression.
My parents told me I ran before. I accepted this without question, and I can guess why. In high school, I probably wanted to escape them. They might have controlled everything else in my life, but not this. In my running shoes, I never have a plan. I run anywhere I want.
Tonight I run ten miles, dividing my time between steady strides and sprinting bursts.
To prepare for my upcoming marathon, I’ll need to log a long run this weekend, but not tonight.
This distance is enough to shake off the stress of the week and relax my mind.
I stop at my special spot in Lincoln Park with the city view before returning home.
After peeling off my clothes, I step into the shower and reach for the hot water.
As soon as I touch the old handle that probably dates to the 1960s, it falls into the porcelain tub.
I hop back, my bare feet dancing to avoid a broken toe as the handle and all the metal pieces anchoring it to the wall crash to the floor of the tub.
A smaller piece rolls down the drain, leaving a flaky trail of rust in its wake.
I sigh and pick up the handle. If it’s not the water, it’s the heater, and if it’s not the heater, it’s the icemaker. There’s nothing in this apartment that hasn’t broken, and nothing Evan hasn’t failed to fix. Ticked at having to deal with this again, I tighten my grip on the knob.
Unwilling to suffer through a freezing shower, I step out and tug on my silk robe.
At the mirror, I tie my hair in a messy topknot and wash off my face, then step into a pair of flip-flops before marching downstairs to the first floor.
At Evan’s door, I knock hard, determined to have it out with him.
This is getting ridiculous. I swear, he has no idea what he’s doing.
Evan doesn’t answer his door. Instead, he yells, “It’s open.”
I step inside and find him behind the kitchen island. He’s wearing an apron and holding a gleaming knife, chopping greens on a butcher block. Italian opera plays in the background. My eyes widen at the unexpected scene.
“You,” he says.
“Me.”
Was he expecting someone? A date?
Annoyance flits through me and I glance around, searching for her, but we’re alone. Regardless, a surge of regret for showing up here without thinking it through pools in my gut. That little annoying voice scolds me for not considering every possible outcome, specifically this one.
His gaze settles on my robe and roams my legs. I tug it closed over my chest, realizing I’m underdressed.
He cocks his head in question.
“This place is falling apart.” I lift my hand. In my palm, the starburst-shaped handle gleams.
“So you show up in a robe?”
I marched down here on an self-righteous wave of indignation, but now that I’m here, half-naked, I see this was a mistake. This is what happens when I don’t think things through. Disaster. Uncomfortable, I shift my weight to my other foot.
To his credit, Evan reels in his perusing gaze. “I would have come up to fix it.” He wipes his hands on his apron and steps around the island. He’s barefoot and wearing worn jeans with rips that reveal his strong knees.
He approaches and reaches out. Our fingers touch for a second when I drop the knob into his hand, making the skin in that spot tingle.
I cross my hand to my opposite arm and rub from wrist to elbow to quell the sensation, only to find my palm slick with cold sweat.
My shoulders draw inward. My gaze flicks away, finding nothing in particular, and then back to his face when I sense him studying me.
Is he holding back a smile? I knit my brows.
Any bravado I had the other night while we were texting is long gone. Standing face-to-face with him is different. There’s no way to hide behind technology. This is the real me.
In an attempt to deflect my awkwardness, I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “You’re cooking kind of late. It’s after eleven.”
“That’s what I do. Cook late and break into pretty ladies’ apartments to ruin their grandmothers’ towels.”
“They aren’t my grandmother’s.” Brushing aside his compliment, I go on the defensive, and regret it as soon as I do.
“Then your taste sucks worse than I thought.” He smirks, and my jaw tightens.
We’re dealing with two issues. One, even though I know he’s kidding, he’s still a bit of an ass. And two, I always take him too seriously. If we could meet in the middle, we might . . . be what? Friends?
“Can you fix it?”
“I can, or you can use my shower and I can fix it tomorrow.”
My breathing stills, and I automatically step back.
“I mean, only because I’m in the middle of cooking and it’s late, and you seem like you need a shower right now.”
There it is again. That challenge to do something I wouldn’t normally.
I glance down and survey myself, assessing the damage, my level of stinkiness, and also to hide my uneasy expression.
There’s no chance of using Aggie’s shower tonight.
She’s out, and even if she were home, she’d be entertaining Charlie.
Instead of running away like I want to, I refocus and dig so deep for courage, the words erupt from my lips in an unexpected rush.
“Fine. I’ll use your shower.”
This causes him to flinch in the tiniest way. It’s barely perceptible, but I notice his surprise. The same way I notice the twitch of a smile forming. I wait for it to appear in a full toothy grin, along with some smart-ass comment.
“Alone,” I add, wrapping my arms around myself. “Just tell me where it is.”
“I wouldn’t think of inviting myself.” He raises his palms and returns to cooking. “Use the main bath. It’s cleaner.” Holding up a wooden spoon, he points me in the direction of his bedroom without additional commentary, for which I’m thankful.
I should be in a rush to get in and out, but with the music to carry me on, I wander through the apartment, taking time to browse the photos and decor.
I’ve never been in here. There’s a second bedroom, but I can’t see inside.
If anything, I’m jealous of all the space.
Square footage comes at a premium in downtown Chicago.
I could afford more than my little apartment, but I’m saving to purchase Ozzy’s home.
The photos hanging in the hallway are varied.
Evan appears well traveled. There are images of him hiking in Peru, snorkeling in clear teal waters, another of him skiing on high snowy peaks, and another of him hugging a baby elephant.
So he’s into sports, likes to travel, and takes cute photos with baby animals?
I press my lips together, withholding a smile.
But those aren’t the photos I linger in front of. The most interesting one is of him tanned, shirtless, and building a home for what looks like Habitat. He’s, well, he’s very in shape. Very. That unwanted tingle returns, so I move to the next photo.
This is where my pulse jumps. This photo is of a younger Evan and a girl—a very pretty blonde with wide green eyes.
A small diamond sparkles on the side of her nose.
Seeing them together with his arm draped over her shoulder hurts a little, and I have no clue why.
Despite the unexplainable ache, I stare at them for a long while.
A loud clank from the kitchen causes me to jolt. Not wanting to be caught showing too much interest, I move on.
I find Evan’s room far cleaner than expected, considering his disheveled appearance.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wearing something other than ripped jeans and threadbare T-shirts, which I have to admit look fantastic on him, but still.
The apartment decor doesn’t jibe with his outward appearance.
“Brought you this.”
I turn toward his voice to find he’s holding out a towel.
“Thanks.” I take it, noting it’s the kind that belongs in a nice hotel and is much softer than anything I own. I realize I’m holding it to my cheek, and he hasn’t budged. I’m waiting for him to say something else, but he only nods with a bit of his own jittery awkwardness.
Though I find it cute, I’m not sure why he’s so nervous. In the year I’ve known him, he’s never acted like this. He’s always been so confident.