Chapter 5
As we make our way downstairs and out the building’s front door, I get the distinct impression that Ben Morgan is not a fan of small talk.
He keeps his focus ahead, the solid line of his shoulders tense under his canvas jacket.
By the time we arrive at the corner, a crossroads where every direction seems to lead to a labyrinth of even more brick rowhouses, I’m starting to think he’s forgotten I’m even here.
Which is probably for the best. I need to keep track of the path we take before it becomes a jumble in my brain.
Otherwise, there’s no hope that I’ll ever find my way back home again.
I’ll be left wandering the streets of Boston with nothing but a pair of red Crocs and a bad bob, and—
“How are you feeling?” Ben’s voice breaks the silence like a truck rolling over a gravel path.
I blink up at him. He taps a finger against his temple.
Oh, right. My head.
“Well, they discharged me this morning, so the hospital thinks I’m okay,” I reply. “I mean, there’s still the issue with my memory, obviously. But I’m better than when you found me.”
“That wouldn’t be hard. You were in rough shape.”
Part of me is desperate to dig into the details, pick them apart to see if there are any answers hiding underneath.
But I’m also aware that asking Ben to catalogue exactly how he found me passed out downstairs, and then somehow managed to get me to a hospital all on his own, promises more embarrassment than clarity.
Especially since I’m in the clothes I had on when I was admitted to the ER, which means I’m probably wearing the same outfit he found me in. I have to tread carefully.
“Do you know how long I had been there?” I ask.
“Not long. I only ran to the store to grab a few things before they closed. You were there when I got back,” he replies, waiting for a cab to pass before crossing another narrow street.
I follow as I try to make this new information fit the empty spaces in my memory, but all it manages to do is remind me how much I still don’t know.
“Well, I appreciate it,” I say, trying not to sound too dejected. “Not just for getting me to the hospital, but for sticking around afterward.”
“Just until they told me you were okay and someone had contacted your boyfriend.”
Right. Matt. I’m almost embarrassed that I needed a reminder that he existed, let alone that I should probably be mourning our relationship right now instead of studying the width of my neighbor’s shoulders.
“Yeah. Although I think he’s my ex-boyfriend now?
I’m not sure. I need to figure that out after the phone thing.
And the doctor’s appointment. And the mouse.
” The memory of the small ball of fur scurrying across the kitchen floor flashes in my mind and I shiver.
“Is it normal to get mice in the building?”
“Not unless you leave food out.”
My brain stumbles back to my apartment and the half-eaten toast on the kitchen counter that must have been sitting there all week and I try not to look too guilty. “So who should I talk to about it? The mouse, I mean.”
“Gino, the super.”
“The super! Of course. We have a super, don’t we? Great, I’ll call Gino.” I’m so relieved, I actually let out a laugh.
“How?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“How will you call him? You can’t get into your phone,” he replies flatly.
Touché, Ben Morgan.
I nod as if I’ve thought of this, like we’re partners on equal cognitive footing. “Well, if I can’t figure out the passcode, I’ll just bring it to an Apple Store. There has to be one nearby, right?”
Ben looks dubious. “In the North End?”
“Is that where we are right now?” I ask, looking around at the intersection we’ve entered.
All four streets meet in the center at an odd angle, making the brick buildings around us feel off-kilter.
Their bay windows, framed in copper that’s succumbed to a deep verdigris green patina, seem to arch over us and the line of people outside an Italian bakery across the street.
“Yup,” he replies.
“And it doesn’t have a computer store or something?”
“The North End is like Boston’s Little Italy. Good for food, not for technology. But there’s a hardware store just down the block where you can pick up some mousetraps.”
“Oh, I don’t need traps,” I say, waving off the suggestion as we turn left and pass a basketball court slotted between an apartment building and a church.
His eyebrows knit together. “I thought you saw a mouse.”
“I did, but I don’t want to kill it. I just want to make sure he’s gone.”
An elderly couple is walking toward us, so we pause beside the steps of the church to give them space to pass by with their walkers. Ben takes the opportunity to glance down at me, a look that seems to demand that I take him seriously. “You need traps.”
“I’m a vegetarian, Ben. I cry during ASPCA commercials. Do you honestly think I’m going to willfully kill a small animal who accidentally stumbled into my apartment?”
He frowns. “Is that a trick question?”
The elderly couple finally passes, and they give us a warm smile.
I give them one back, while Ben offers a tight nod before starting down the sidewalk again.
I wait until they’re out of earshot before I say, “What if I’m lying in bed one night and I hear one go off—SNAP.
I’m supposed to not only live with the guilt, but also get up and get rid of it, too? ”
“That’s the general idea, yeah.”
I scoff. “That’s awful. I could never do that.”
“All right. Then knock on my door and I will.”
The offer is so matter-of-fact that it takes me a moment to realize he’s serious.
“Really?” I ask.
He gives me another look as we stop at a crosswalk, brows drawn together so his eyes seem even darker than before. “Yes. Really.”
His voice is startlingly deep and hits low in my stomach, sending a prickling heat across my skin. Oh God, is this another by-product of the head injury? An inconvenient attraction to my neighbor?
I blink away just as the WALK sign lights up and we start across the street. “Well, I guess that’s the difference between you and me.”
“The appreciation for pest control?” he says.
“And the thirst for innocent blood.”
I think I catch a twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s almost like a smile, but not quite. Just enough to send a steady thrum down my veins.
We go around another corner and onto a street that is blessedly wider than the last. The brick buildings are low and tightly packed, and the businesses occupying the ground floors—a bank, a laundromat, a couple of restaurants with tables set up outside—are shielded every few feet by a tree with leaves turning different shades of yellow and orange.
A group of tourists pass, taking photos of each other with what looks to be yet another church framed in the background, while on the opposite side of the road an elderly man sits on a stool outside a cigar shop, grumbling about something I can’t quite make out.
Despite the picture-perfect moment, Ben’s pace is undaunted, and I match my steps to his as I try to recall our path up until now. Right, then right, maybe? Then two blocks and a left, then straight, I think. But as we pass yet another bakery, the directions become a jumble in my brain.
At the corner, we wait for the light to change, and I do another audit of my surroundings.
“What’s the matter?” Ben asks when he catches me frowning up at a street sign where a dozen other signs have been hung as well—except instead of streets, they’re labeled with the names of different Italian cities.
Even worse, they’re all pointing in different directions.
Roma to the left, Firenze to the right, Pisa straight ahead.
As if my brain needs another spatial challenge.
“Sorry. Just realizing I should have been writing down the directions along the way,” I say, looking across the intersection again.
“I’m sure it’s just because I don’t know the neighborhood.
It’s like trying to do a jigsaw puzzle with all the pieces turned upside down.
How can I figure out each part if I don’t even have an idea of the overall picture, you know? ”
Ben stares down at me for a moment, his lips making that grim line again. “Your brain was bleeding a few days ago, Marnie. Give yourself a break.”
Huh. Fair.
The light changes and we continue on. I’m trying to think of what to say next, how to ask any of the dozens of questions that pop into my brain at any one moment, when he stops halfway down the street in front of a green awning with NORTH MARKET written across the edge.
It looks almost out of place, stuck between a dry cleaner on one side and a small shop called Wireless Warehouse on the other.
Above the door there’s an illuminated OPEN sign, with each of its three windows featuring a different faded poster of produce.
None of it looks particularly appetizing, but right now, I’m too relieved to care.
I turn back to Ben, a huge grin on my face. “Thank you. Seriously, I never would have found this on my own.”
It’s impossible to tell if he truly understands just how much I mean it. His expression gives nothing away.
“Do you need help getting home?” he asks.
“No, it’s totally fine. I’ll figure it out,” I reply, waving away the offer and ignoring the stab of anxiety at the thought of somehow navigating my way back again.
A moment passes while we both just stand there, looking at one another.
The morning sun has risen above the buildings opposite us, and its light shines down on Ben’s face from a new angle.
I didn’t realize it before, but his eyes aren’t really that dark at all.
There are flecks of amber woven in with the brown, and the rings around his irises are tinged with green.
His brow furrows, and it’s only then that I realize I’ve been staring up at him for an embarrassingly long amount of time.
“Right, well, I should probably head inside. Wish me luck,” I say. Then I give him another salute—why?—and pull open the door to enter.