by Scott, S. L.
Running my hand through my hair, I say, “I’m open to the idea. Continue.”
“Although the universe is doing a pretty darn good job, maybe we can make a plan.”
“Plan a date?”
“No, more like going out together without it being a date. Go out as friends.”
“Friends. Yes. I like this dating plan.”
“It’s not a dating plan. It’s just friends going on a . . . ugh. I mean going out. Hanging out. Platonically. Now I’m getting confused. Platonically.” She says that last word again, and then asks, “Is that even a word? Why does it sound strange and taste so weird? Platonically.”
“Platonically. It sounds weird to my ears now too.” When I yawn, and my eyes dip closed longer than is acceptable for standing on a street having a definition-defining conversation about a word, she tugs me by the sleeve of my jacket. “As fun as this is, as your friend, I think you should go home.”
Tapping the tip of her cute nose, I admit, “I don’t disagree.”
“All right. Since you’re drunk and wearing a Rolex and a designer suit on the street, Rascal and I will just make sure you get home safely.”
“This is a first.”
“Guess there’s always room for another.” Now that we’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk again, she looks around. Unsettled, she asks, “Where do you live?”
My head bobs to the right. “Right here.”
Her smile is honest and unassuming, unlike her eyes that seem to protect her secrets.
What am I doing? “I used to hold my liquor better.” When she looks at the building, I study her profile, tracing the slightest of slopes down her nose to the peaks of the bow at the top of her lips. She really is quite attractive.
Puffing a breath, she sends strands of hair flying into the air in front of her, only for them to return and fall back in her face. Out of the corners of her eyes, she looks at me. “Let’s get you home. It’s past Rascal’s bedtime, and I have a feeling it’s past yours as well.”
Before we reach the door, I stop her. My fingers slide up the back of her arm while my gaze remains glued to her face—the sharp lines that lead from the apples of her cheeks to her cute little chin. “I think that’s a good idea, but I also think I should make sure you get home safely.”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I live really close, and I have Rascal to protect me.”
Gil swings the door open, smiling as usual. “Good evening.”
Just inside the door, she says, “Good evening.” Turning back, I look at her, realizing she’s not wearing any makeup. She’s fresh-faced, and her hair is messy but beautiful as always. Words don’t come easy as I take her in.
But with a clearing of Gil’s throat, I step farther into the lobby as she stands just outside the door, an invisible barrier keeping us apart. Gil scratches his head as confusion rattles his expression. “Is everything all right?”
Juni scoops Rascal into her arms and then catches up to me. “Hey, I know you’ve been drinking, but I don’t want you to forget about our plans.”
I punch the button and then stop with my back to the elevator. “To hang out?”
Her smile is sunshine, though it’s late at night. “Yes, to hang out. Drink lots of water, okay?”
“I will.” Smiling, I say, “Thanks, friend.”
“Wait.” Grabbing her phone from her pocket, she asks, “What do you think about exchanging numbers? Then if we want to hang out or you need someone to protect you on your next drunken night out, you can text me.”
I pull mine from my pocket and tell her my number. A text pops onto the screen, cementing the smile on my face. She releases a breath, and then says, “We’ll talk soon.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding as I back into the elevator. “Definitely. Good night, Juni.”
“Good night, Andrew.” The door closes, and I fall back on the wall, staring down at the screen. I decide to send her a text. How do you feel about tomorrow?
The door opens, and as I walk to my apartment, my phone buzzes in my hand. I stop to read her quick reply. I love Saturdays.
My fingers fly across the screen to respond: Me too. I don’t have plans. I was thinking if you don’t have plans, maybe we could not have plans together.
What is wrong with me? Why am I acting like a high school kid again? I really shouldn’t feel this good, considering what I’ve drunk tonight, but there’s just something about her I can’t put my finger on. Another text comes in, making me grin like I’m guilty as sin.
I am. Thoughts fill my head, and I let my imagination run free with the images of how dirty Juni and I could be. The heat from when we touched still pulses through my veins. Instead of going to bed, I grab a bottle of water and then detour to the bathroom. I’m definitely going to need a cold shower.
With the water running, I slip my jacket off and toss it onto the bed. Leaning against the marble counter with a ridiculous smile on my face, I think about the last text she sent. Sounds like a plan.
9
Juni
Now we’re friends?
Oh God.
Not that I’m opposed to having friends. Having them is great, but what happened? Why did I ask a drunk man if he wants to be my friend? So humiliating. Why did I do that?
Have I gone insane?
I sounded so desperate, yet I couldn’t bring myself to stop. Once the words left my mouth, it was too late. I’m now two texts deep into making plans with him. Well, agreeing to not make plans but a plan to hang out sometime. Oh God.
When burying my face in a pillow doesn’t ease the embarrassment flooding every fiber of my being, I consider other alternatives like moving to Alaska, or going on an extended trip to Texas, maybe joining the Navy, a stint on Below Deck, or even hiking the Pacific Crest Trail like Cheryl Strayed in the movie Wild.
Anything works that gets me far from being in the same building, in the same vicinity, or even the same state with him. I half giggle, unwittingly thinking about how he thought I meant the state of New York instead of his state of sobriety. He was drunk, all right.
As funny as that was, how am I going to face him when he’s sober?
Oh, wait. I bolt upright. Maybe Andrew won’t remember. I have a feeling he wasn’t drunk enough to forget. One can only hope it’s the opposite.
Flopping back down on the bed, I need to think clearly. I need to dissect the night through each minute, and then use my brain’s muscle memory to trace and track.
It was a normal night, not meant to be more.
Mr. Clark called about Rascal needing to go out just before ten, so I grabbed my jacket since I had nothing better going on. It wasn’t a big deal. I chose the grass pad down the street instead of hitting the rooftop patch. Sometimes it’s not worth the fit Rascal throws when I’m trying to make him go on fake turf.
But unlike any other night, Andrew had shown up seemingly out of nowhere. Sure, I know he came from down the street, but with that tie loosened and the top button of his shirt popped open, I was taken by surprise.
The way his hair hung over his forehead as if he’d spent hours in bed instead of at a bar, or restaurant, or wherever he was that overserved him. The late-night scruff covering his jaw had me biting his lip—my lip. I meant I was biting my lip but wanted to bite . . . This might be a good time to drag the pillow over my head again.
At this rate of mortification, I’m never going to get any sleep. I roll to the side to check the time. 12:38.
Only two things will make me feel better. I’ll start with food.
I drag the spices from the cabinet and the paneer cheese from the fridge. I need comfort food tonight, and that means curry. It’s New York, so I could order anything I want at this hour, but sometimes I just need to turn on some music to set the scene and do something to take my mind off things.
Even if just for a short time.
I turn up the music and start cooking. Moving around the kitchen, I dance in the fragrance of the spices. Since I’m
using cheese as my protein, it doesn’t take long to simmer everything together, but I go ahead and pour myself a small glass of wine. It may not take my mind off everything from earlier tonight, but for a brief time, it helps.
Twenty minutes to cook.
Ten minutes to devour.
I lose the motivation to clean the dishes afterward, but I’m never one to rush to clean up after a meal anyway. The process of cooking and eating should be enjoyed. Cleaning is such a chore. I fill the sink and leave them to soak until morning.
Turning off the music, I fall back on the couch, stuffed after eating my creation at the island. Like a bad date, the memories return for another round of torture. I wallow a while but then decide I have to resort to the only other option I have. Gil.
Pushing off the couch, I go to slip on my baby-blue, sheep-covered sleep pants and my fuzzy purple robe over my tank top. I tighten the belt and slip on a pair of flip-flops before heading down to the lobby.
The elevator doors open, and the newlyweds from the fifteenth floor—looking like they just walked off the runway—step back with mouths wide open. “Hi,” I squeak out because sure, I needed to be embarrassed once more before bed.
Her flowing chestnut hair drapes over her shoulders as if it considers it a privilege to be there. Her perfect red lips form a smile, but she can’t hide the sympathy filling her eyes as if she knows I begged a drunk man to be my friend.
She’s probably never had to beg for anything.
Cringing inside, I mutter, “We can’t all be supermodels,” with a roll of my eyes.
They let the girl having a mental meltdown have her moment by not saying anything, but don’t think I don’t notice the wide berth they travel when they pass to get on the elevator. If wearing pajamas in a high-rise lobby is considered an act of the insane, then call me cuckoo. I flip my hair and head toward the front desk.
Witnessing it all, Gil chuckles behind a fist. His laughter is contagious, and this time, I roll my eyes at myself and give in. “What? They acted like being dressed in your jammies is weird or something. They probably sleep in the nude, or worse, she wears those silky lingerie sets while walking around in those fluffy feather slippers with heels being glamorous for the entire city to see through their windows.”
Trying to keep my imagination from running further than it has already, I plant my elbows on the top of the counter and rest my chin in my hands with a dramatic sigh.
Gil holds up a pink box of donuts. “Your favorite, strawberry frosted.”
I take the pastry despite still being stuffed from the curry and rice. He may not have made them, but I feel the care in the sweet offering. “How do you always know exactly what I need?”
“I was here the first day you walked through that door as a precocious seven-year-old,” he says, pointing at the front as I snack on the pastry. “My daughter used to babysit you, and my sweet wife, Nancy, baked your tenth birthday cake. I always grab an extra just in case you need a pick-me-up. Call me sentimental.”
“Sentimental,” I say, watching his smile grow wider. “But honestly, I hate you spending your hard-earned money on me. You don’t have to.” I bite off more than I can chew—in life and of the donut—but do it anyway.
“I don’t mind, Juni.” He kicks his feet up on the counter, and asks, “Now what can I do for you?”
There’s always been a bond between us. He’s been a voice of reason many times over the years, and despite me coming down here regularly dressed like a crazy person in the wee morning hours when I can’t sleep, he never judges me for it. It’s called respect.
“I feel stupid, and logically, I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”
“Does this have to do with what happened earlier tonight?” I nod and pop the last of the donut into my mouth. He says, “Listen, kiddo. I’m not sure what was going on, but you two were out on that sidewalk for a long time. By the time you made it inside, I was thoroughly confused. So, if you’re seeking advice from me, I’m gonna need some details.”
Fair enough. “Here’s a little background to catch you up to speed. Rascal and I actually met him in the park last Monday. Don’t tell Mr. Clark, but Rascal slipped right out of his collar. It’s not the first time, and I’ve warned Mr. Clark about this happening before, but he insists Rascal is good when he walks him in the mornings.” I lean down, and whisper, “I’m not trying to badmouth Rascal, but he’s become a little terror lately.”
I tap my chin, realizing things are much clearer in the lights of the bright lobby. If I think about it for more than a few seconds, the only connection I can make is Andrew. Meeting him is when Rascal’s . . . let’s just call them troubles began. And mine, if we’re being honest. Obviously, Andrew is the problem, but I keep this revelation to myself.
“Anyway,” I start again, “Rascal became a little escape artist and took off running faster than I could keep up. He ran straight to Andrew, who was lying in the grass at the park. I have no idea what he was doing, by the way. Enjoying the sunshine, maybe avoiding work, who knows?” I shrug.
“Okay, so . . .?”
“Right. So Rascal runs through poop that someone didn’t pick up, which is really annoying. We share a jinx, and then I face-plant into his shirt. This all happened in one week.” Gil’s feet are back on the floor, and he’s looking at me with confusion wrinkled into his remarkably smooth skin for a man of his age. When a polite pause allowing him to inject a question isn’t taken advantage of, I continue because he is clearly keeping up. “So what I’m saying is—”
“Yes, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I didn’t expect to beg the man to be my friend, but here we are. He’s upstairs, living in the same building as me and probably sleeping soundly while I’m down here asking for advice.”
His brows knit together. “What’s the question?”
I sigh and begin pacing. I thought since he had a daughter, he’d understand the emotional turmoil of putting myself on the line for this stranger who took pity on me because I’m in need of a friend.
Clearly, I’m going to have to spell this out for him.
Stopping in front of his desk, I place both hands on the counter, and ask, “Do you see me hiking the Appalachian Trail or becoming a reality star?”
“Um, I don’t really like either of those options.”
“Because of Andrew, I obviously have to leave the building for an extended period of time, basically until he moves on, so I need your help deciding where to go.”
“What happens if you stay?”
I raise my arms wide before dropping them to my sides again. “There’s a strong chance, and I say this from experience, that I’ll run into him again. And then what? We actually become friends? Have you seen that man? He’s gorgeous and has these flecks of gold in his brown eyes, like little buried treasures he’s personally hidden for me to find. And I don’t know why his grumpiness is so entertaining to me, but it inspires me to want to make him smile.” Melting against the counter, I hold my arms wide and press my cheek against the cold marble. “What is wrong with me, Gil?”
There’s silence. That’s not unusual, but when it drags out, I tilt my head up, resting my chin on the hard surface instead. “What is it?” I ask.
As if two plus two finally equals four, he asks, “We’re still talking about Mr. Christiansen, correct?”
My spine stiffens, and my arms fall to my sides. “Mr. Christiansen?” I ask slowly for the people in the back. That’s me. I’m the people in the back. The image of brass letters rushes to the forefront of my mind as the words—It’s a great day to invest in your future with Christiansen Wealth Management—tickles my tongue.
I suck in a harsh breath and then say, “I have to go.” I’m already running for the elevator when I stop to add, “Thanks, and good night, Gil.”
“Night, Juni.”
Pressing the button, I then turn back again. “Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?”
“You know I won’t.”
/>
“Not even if he asks about me. Promise?”
He stands, joining me at the elevator. “Juni, you know I can’t lie. I’ll do almost anything else, but my mom—God rest her soul—made me promise to always be honest.”
I glance up to see what floor the elevator’s on and then turn back to him. “You know I wouldn’t normally ask this of you, but at least give me time and a little heads-up if he comes snooping around. Will you do that for me?” When he gets trapped in an internal debate, I add, “I know it’s asking a lot of you, but please? No lying. Just a heads-up for me if he finds out?”
“I can do that,” he replies without hesitation this time.
I wrap my arms around him. “Thank you, Gil. I appreciate it.”
The elevator dings, and the door slides open. When I step in, I face him again. “I just need time to think.”
“I understand.”
I nod and give a brief wave before the door closes again. As soon as I land on my floor, I run into my apartment. Dropping the keys on the side table, I ignore the clang of metal when it hits a glass tchotchke. I don’t pay any attention to the blinds still hanging wide open. Even the ticking of the grandfather clock in the back room doesn’t bother me.
I’m on a mission, and nothing is going to sidetrack me.
Grabbing my laptop, I sit in the chair by the window and cross my legs. I settle the machine on my lap and log in. There’s a slight shake to my hands as I type Andrew Christiansen into the search bar and press enter.
I quickly click images. I’m not here to learn about his past life. I just need to confirm he’s not who I think he is. A CEO will have photos put out—professionally.
The average Andrew—and I say that acknowledging there’s nothing average about this Andrew—won’t have as many. Of course, social media plays a big part—Uh!
My hand covers my mouth as I take in the screen full of images.
Andrew surfing.
Andrew shaking hands with George Clooney.
I right-click save that one to analyze later.
Andrew in an LA movers-and-shakers, under-thirty magazine spread.
