Stumbling into Love
Page 3
Once I have everything in my arms, I head for the bedroom door. I pause with my hand on the doorknob and look back at the bed. Running my eyes over Wesley’s dark hair, his face relaxed in sleep, and his big, strong body makes something uncomfortable shift in my stomach. It’s like my soul is telling me that I’m an idiot for just taking off and not seeing what will happen if I stick around.
Shaking off that feeling, I quietly open the door and step out, closing it behind me. Walking into his living-room-slash-kitchen, I put on my clothes as fast as I can. I grab my bag and toss it over my shoulder. Nibbling my bottom lip some more, I wonder if I should leave him a note. I close my eyes at the ridiculousness of the thought. What would it even say? “Thanks for last night?” “It was fun?” Yes, we had a good time, but he had a good time with the Mackenzie who dresses sexy, wears makeup, and drinks martinis. He wasn’t with the real me. Mac the tomboy. The beer drinker, the girl who is always just one of the guys.
My eyes sting at that realization. I like Wesley, but he has no idea who I really am. I doubt that he would like me if he did.
As I leave his apartment, I stop at the top of the steps on the sidewalk and look both ways. I’m not far from the train, so instead of getting a cab like I planned on doing, I make my way toward the subway station at the end of the block. I swipe my MetroCard, then take the stairs down into the mostly empty platform.
Since it’s Saturday, I know it might be a while before my train arrives. I take a seat on one of the benches lining the wall, then dig through my bag for my phone and come up empty-handed. I close my eyes and grit my teeth.
I know I had my phone when I was with Wesley because I sent a text to Libby to let her know not to worry about me. I typed that message in Wesley’s bed while he tried to distract me with his mouth and hands, something he succeeded in doing two seconds after I pressed “Send.”
Groaning, I drop my face to my hands. I left it back at his place.
“Now what?” I ask myself aloud.
I can’t go back and knock on his door. I would look like a complete idiot if I did that.
What would I say? “Hey! I just snuck out of your bed and apartment, but I came back because I think I left my phone behind. Can I come in and search for it?”
“Google is the answer.” Pulling my hands away from my face, I sit back and look at the man standing in front of me. His white hair is wild and sticking out in every direction, his face is pale, and his clothes are dirty and torn. “Google is always the answer. Follow Google.”
He twists his neck back and forth as he gets closer to where I’m sitting. Seeing the way his eyes are dilated and the pulse in his neck is thumping away, I know he’s high. Meaning he’s unstable. My dad has always told me never to show fear, never to allow anyone to think they can intimidate me. That has always stuck with me. I raise my chin, and he stops moving, but I don’t relax. I know better than to let my guard down. Sliding my hand into the pocket of my coat, I wrap my fingers tightly around my can of mace and stand up.
He doesn’t move, but his eyes stay locked on me as I slowly back away from him down the platform toward a young couple who is making out and an older gentleman who is reading the paper. Hearing the sound of the train rushing through the tunnel, I sigh in relief when I see that it’s mine. As soon as the train stops and the doors open, I get into a crowded car and take a seat across from the doors. I watch them shut as the train pulls away.
A flash of black catches my attention, and I turn my head. My eyes widen when I see Wesley. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweats, a black hoodie, and sneakers—and he’s running down the platform after my train. I stand without thinking, and his disappointed eyes meet mine through the window right before he disappears out of sight as we head into the tunnel.
Taking my seat again, I close my eyes, lean my head back, and tuck my purse in front of my stomach. I hold it there tightly, trying to stop a wave of nausea.
He came after me.
I don’t know how he knew I would be getting on the train, but he did.
He came after me. Or at least I think he did.
I furrow my brow, then feel my heart plummet when I realize he probably found my phone and was just trying to catch me so he could return it. Opening my eyes again, I take a deep breath. I need to figure out how to get my phone from him. It will be more awkward than waking up with him, but I can’t afford to buy a new one.
As soon as I reach my stop, I head up the steps out of the station and then walk the three blocks to my place. Libby and I share a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a three-family house. The house is a traditional New York City brownstone, with a wide stoop in the front. In the summer, I sit there and watch the kids in the neighborhood play as I drink my coffee in the mornings.
I got the apartment when I moved to New York. It was the only thing I ever had that was just mine, the first thing I didn’t have to share with my sisters. Well, until Fawn came to the city to go to college. Libby joined us not long after that. Thankfully, Fawn no longer lives with us. I love my sisters, but the three of us sharing the small space led to a lot of fights.
As soon as I’m inside the foyer, I stop at the mailboxes and open mine. Pulling out a handful of mostly junk mail, I see Miss Ina open her apartment door an inch to peek out to see who’s in the hall. Doing the nice thing, I give her a smile. I regret it instantly, because she takes it as an invitation to open the door completely. Miss Ina is eighty years old, a tiny thing with a humpback that makes her appear even smaller than she already is. Her white hair looks like a big puffy cloud on top of her head, and her frail skin is practically transparent, but her brown eyes are so dark, they look almost black. I swear when she looks at you, it’s like she’s looking into your soul. Scanning it for all the wrongs you’ve done in your life. Nothing happens in the house without her knowing about it. She knows everyone’s business—sometimes before they even do.
“We need to talk,” she says as she pushes her walker in front of her and moves out into the entryway.
“How can I help you, Miss Ina?” I ask, watching her hobble closer with her walker squeaking as she sidles up to me.
“I can’t sleep with all the banging around upstairs.”
“Miss Ina, we’ve talked about this. The house is old. It’s not soundproof. Libby and I both try to be quiet, but you can’t expect us to tiptoe around upstairs all the time,” I say as nicely as I can.
She huffs. I do feel bad for her. I know exactly what she’s going through, since there’s a family who lives above us with three small children. We can hear everything they do upstairs—and I mean everything—from the kids playing with cars on the floor to Mrs. and Mr. Kind’s bed banging against the wall at night as they work on a fourth baby.
“I need my rest. You girls need to be more considerate of your neighbors,” she says.
I sigh. I’ve been down this road with her enough times to know that she won’t give up until I agree, even if I don’t really agree with her.
I give in. “We will try to be quieter.”
She huffs again in response. Giving up on making her happy because it’s impossible, I tuck my mail into my bag and scoot around her and her walker. I move toward the stairs.
“Have a great day, Miss Ina!” I call over my shoulder when I’m halfway up the first flight. She doesn’t respond—not that I expected her to.
Unlocking the door to my apartment, I push it open and listen to it groan. I step inside and shut it behind me. Okay, I slam it a little to get it to close—and to piss off Ina. I shrug off my purse and jacket, then lay both of them on the couch. Next, I take off my boots and drop them to the floor near the couch. The apartment is small, just about four hundred square feet. The living room is just inside the front door and is barely big enough for the couch that sits under the pass-through window into the kitchen. The TV is directly across from it. The kitchen is also tiny, but it works for Libby and me since neither of us can cook. The apartment might not be fabulous, but the bathroom is amazing—or rather, my bathtub is. The old claw-foot tub is the only reason I haven’t moved out.
Knowing Libby is at work, I start to undress as I make my way into the bathroom. I have always loved taking baths, and a bath is exactly what I need to relax after the morning’s excitement. Filling up the tub, I dump a handful of bath salts into the water, then climb in. After an hour of soaking, I get out and put on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. I plant myself on the couch in front of the TV with a bowl of Cheerios. I tell myself that I won’t worry about getting my phone back from Wesley until after the weekend.
Shaking off that feeling, I quietly open the door and step out, closing it behind me. Walking into his living-room-slash-kitchen, I put on my clothes as fast as I can. I grab my bag and toss it over my shoulder. Nibbling my bottom lip some more, I wonder if I should leave him a note. I close my eyes at the ridiculousness of the thought. What would it even say? “Thanks for last night?” “It was fun?” Yes, we had a good time, but he had a good time with the Mackenzie who dresses sexy, wears makeup, and drinks martinis. He wasn’t with the real me. Mac the tomboy. The beer drinker, the girl who is always just one of the guys.
My eyes sting at that realization. I like Wesley, but he has no idea who I really am. I doubt that he would like me if he did.
As I leave his apartment, I stop at the top of the steps on the sidewalk and look both ways. I’m not far from the train, so instead of getting a cab like I planned on doing, I make my way toward the subway station at the end of the block. I swipe my MetroCard, then take the stairs down into the mostly empty platform.
Since it’s Saturday, I know it might be a while before my train arrives. I take a seat on one of the benches lining the wall, then dig through my bag for my phone and come up empty-handed. I close my eyes and grit my teeth.
I know I had my phone when I was with Wesley because I sent a text to Libby to let her know not to worry about me. I typed that message in Wesley’s bed while he tried to distract me with his mouth and hands, something he succeeded in doing two seconds after I pressed “Send.”
Groaning, I drop my face to my hands. I left it back at his place.
“Now what?” I ask myself aloud.
I can’t go back and knock on his door. I would look like a complete idiot if I did that.
What would I say? “Hey! I just snuck out of your bed and apartment, but I came back because I think I left my phone behind. Can I come in and search for it?”
“Google is the answer.” Pulling my hands away from my face, I sit back and look at the man standing in front of me. His white hair is wild and sticking out in every direction, his face is pale, and his clothes are dirty and torn. “Google is always the answer. Follow Google.”
He twists his neck back and forth as he gets closer to where I’m sitting. Seeing the way his eyes are dilated and the pulse in his neck is thumping away, I know he’s high. Meaning he’s unstable. My dad has always told me never to show fear, never to allow anyone to think they can intimidate me. That has always stuck with me. I raise my chin, and he stops moving, but I don’t relax. I know better than to let my guard down. Sliding my hand into the pocket of my coat, I wrap my fingers tightly around my can of mace and stand up.
He doesn’t move, but his eyes stay locked on me as I slowly back away from him down the platform toward a young couple who is making out and an older gentleman who is reading the paper. Hearing the sound of the train rushing through the tunnel, I sigh in relief when I see that it’s mine. As soon as the train stops and the doors open, I get into a crowded car and take a seat across from the doors. I watch them shut as the train pulls away.
A flash of black catches my attention, and I turn my head. My eyes widen when I see Wesley. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweats, a black hoodie, and sneakers—and he’s running down the platform after my train. I stand without thinking, and his disappointed eyes meet mine through the window right before he disappears out of sight as we head into the tunnel.
Taking my seat again, I close my eyes, lean my head back, and tuck my purse in front of my stomach. I hold it there tightly, trying to stop a wave of nausea.
He came after me.
I don’t know how he knew I would be getting on the train, but he did.
He came after me. Or at least I think he did.
I furrow my brow, then feel my heart plummet when I realize he probably found my phone and was just trying to catch me so he could return it. Opening my eyes again, I take a deep breath. I need to figure out how to get my phone from him. It will be more awkward than waking up with him, but I can’t afford to buy a new one.
As soon as I reach my stop, I head up the steps out of the station and then walk the three blocks to my place. Libby and I share a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a three-family house. The house is a traditional New York City brownstone, with a wide stoop in the front. In the summer, I sit there and watch the kids in the neighborhood play as I drink my coffee in the mornings.
I got the apartment when I moved to New York. It was the only thing I ever had that was just mine, the first thing I didn’t have to share with my sisters. Well, until Fawn came to the city to go to college. Libby joined us not long after that. Thankfully, Fawn no longer lives with us. I love my sisters, but the three of us sharing the small space led to a lot of fights.
As soon as I’m inside the foyer, I stop at the mailboxes and open mine. Pulling out a handful of mostly junk mail, I see Miss Ina open her apartment door an inch to peek out to see who’s in the hall. Doing the nice thing, I give her a smile. I regret it instantly, because she takes it as an invitation to open the door completely. Miss Ina is eighty years old, a tiny thing with a humpback that makes her appear even smaller than she already is. Her white hair looks like a big puffy cloud on top of her head, and her frail skin is practically transparent, but her brown eyes are so dark, they look almost black. I swear when she looks at you, it’s like she’s looking into your soul. Scanning it for all the wrongs you’ve done in your life. Nothing happens in the house without her knowing about it. She knows everyone’s business—sometimes before they even do.
“We need to talk,” she says as she pushes her walker in front of her and moves out into the entryway.
“How can I help you, Miss Ina?” I ask, watching her hobble closer with her walker squeaking as she sidles up to me.
“I can’t sleep with all the banging around upstairs.”
“Miss Ina, we’ve talked about this. The house is old. It’s not soundproof. Libby and I both try to be quiet, but you can’t expect us to tiptoe around upstairs all the time,” I say as nicely as I can.
She huffs. I do feel bad for her. I know exactly what she’s going through, since there’s a family who lives above us with three small children. We can hear everything they do upstairs—and I mean everything—from the kids playing with cars on the floor to Mrs. and Mr. Kind’s bed banging against the wall at night as they work on a fourth baby.
“I need my rest. You girls need to be more considerate of your neighbors,” she says.
I sigh. I’ve been down this road with her enough times to know that she won’t give up until I agree, even if I don’t really agree with her.
I give in. “We will try to be quieter.”
She huffs again in response. Giving up on making her happy because it’s impossible, I tuck my mail into my bag and scoot around her and her walker. I move toward the stairs.
“Have a great day, Miss Ina!” I call over my shoulder when I’m halfway up the first flight. She doesn’t respond—not that I expected her to.
Unlocking the door to my apartment, I push it open and listen to it groan. I step inside and shut it behind me. Okay, I slam it a little to get it to close—and to piss off Ina. I shrug off my purse and jacket, then lay both of them on the couch. Next, I take off my boots and drop them to the floor near the couch. The apartment is small, just about four hundred square feet. The living room is just inside the front door and is barely big enough for the couch that sits under the pass-through window into the kitchen. The TV is directly across from it. The kitchen is also tiny, but it works for Libby and me since neither of us can cook. The apartment might not be fabulous, but the bathroom is amazing—or rather, my bathtub is. The old claw-foot tub is the only reason I haven’t moved out.
Knowing Libby is at work, I start to undress as I make my way into the bathroom. I have always loved taking baths, and a bath is exactly what I need to relax after the morning’s excitement. Filling up the tub, I dump a handful of bath salts into the water, then climb in. After an hour of soaking, I get out and put on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. I plant myself on the couch in front of the TV with a bowl of Cheerios. I tell myself that I won’t worry about getting my phone back from Wesley until after the weekend.
