Kyle and I take the elevator downstairs. Hopefully I won’t get called out on an emergency, although that’s more likely to happen at night. Days tend to be quieter in an ER.
The elevator doors open and I spot Charlotte standing near the front entrance. I glance at Linnea and almost stop in my tracks. She’s wearing a pale green sleeveless shirt, form-fitting black pants, and tan wedge heels. Her wavy blond hair is down and she tucks it behind her ear as she smiles at me.
And yes, her boobs look amazing.
“Whoa,” Kyle says under his breath. “That’s your nanny?”
“Eyes on her face, Kyle.”
He clears his throat.
“Hi, Daddy,” Charlotte says when we approach.
“Hi, Bug.” I pick her up and nod to Kyle as he heads down the hall. I can practically feel him trying not to stare at Linnea.
“I’m glad you could get away for a little bit,” Linnea says. “It’s good to see you.”
“Yeah, it’s good to see you too.”
Her face flushes, and I think I might have just done a very unmanly thing and blushed a little bit too. Shit.
“I can’t go very far when I’m on call, but there’s a deli just across the street,” I say.
“That sounds great,” Linnea says.
“Can I have mac and cheese?” Charlotte asks.
“Let’s go see what they have,” I say.
We head outside and across the street. The deli is busy, but there are a few open tables. I help Charlotte find what she wants—they do have mac and cheese—and we all order at the counter. The guy gives us a number to take to our table and says our food will be out soon.
Just as we sit down, Charlotte announces she has to go to the bathroom. Linnea grabs her purse and starts to get up, but I put a hand on her arm to stop her.
The feel of her skin sends a jolt of electricity racing through me. I try not to let it show on my face.
“I can take her.”
“You sure?” she asks.
“Yeah, happy to. Come on, Bug.”
The bathrooms are single occupant, so it’s no big deal to take her in the men’s room. She chats with me as she goes potty—telling me all about their bus ride downtown. When we come out, there’s a guy sitting at our table, directly across from Linnea.
I’m instantly angry. Who the fuck is this guy? I roll my eyes at his hipster-stache. Dude, if you can’t grow real facial hair, just shave.
He nods to something Linnea is saying—I can’t see her face—but the smile he gives her makes my back stiffen. I know that smile—every guy does. Predatory. I scoop up Charlotte so we can move faster and walk across the deli.
I stop next to the table and glance at Linnea before leveling the guy with a stare. “Hi.”
He looks up at me, blinking in surprise. “Oh. Is this your table?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh, sorry.” He doesn’t look at Linnea again, just gets up.
I keep my eyes on him until he leaves out the front door, then set Charlotte down.
“Who was that?” Charlotte asks.
Linnea starts to answer, but I speak first. “Someone who had the wrong table.”
“Oh,” Charlotte says.
Linnea bites her lower lip and glances away.
Shit. Maybe she wanted to talk to him. She doesn’t know many people yet. I know she’s met a few people at the music store where she started teaching piano but that’s about it. My schedule makes it hard for her to get out and have much of a life. I just acted like kind of a dick, chasing that guy off. It’s not like I have any say in who Linnea talks to.
And why should I let it bother me? She’s Charlotte’s nanny. That’s all. It’s not like I could date her, even if I wanted to.
Who am I kidding? I want to. I’ve been entranced by her since the moment she came down that escalator in the airport. But it’s just not an option.
“Sorry about that,” I say. “I, um, assumed he was bothering you.”
She lifts her eyes to meet mine. “It’s okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. He kind of invited himself to sit down and then asked me if I drink milk.”
“If you drink milk? What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
Linnea smiles and rolls her eyes. “He said it did my body good.”
That makes me laugh. “You’re kidding. That’s a terrible line.”
“It was pretty bad,” she says.
The waitress brings our lunches, setting our plates down in front of each of us. I need to get a handle on myself. It’s inevitable that Linnea is going to meet people—start dating. She should be dating. She’s beautiful and fun, and she’ll make some lucky asshole one hell of a girlfriend. Some really lucky asshole one hell of a wife someday.
I’ve never been a jealous guy, but every time I think of her with someone else, it pisses me off.
We eat lunch and I glance up at her a few times. Keeping things professional with her is more difficult than I thought. But I guess that just means I have to try harder.
6
Linnea
A little rush of nerves hits me as I stand outside the bar. It’s nondescript from the outside, wedged between a nail salon and a tattoo shop. My eyes linger on the tattoo shop for a few seconds. I’ve been thinking a lot about getting a tattoo, but I haven’t mustered the courage to go through with it yet.
Chloe, a girl who works at Henley’s Music, invited me out tonight. I met her my first day teaching piano lessons, and she always says hi and chats with me when I’m there. I told her how I’m new in town and working as a nanny for my niece. She invited me out once before, but Caleb had one of his overnight shifts, so I had to be home with Charlotte.
When I told Caleb that Chloe had invited me out tonight, he seemed thrilled that it was on his night off so I could go. Honestly, I think he was more excited than I am. I was waffling over whether or not I wanted to accept, but he told me I really should.
It’s not that I don’t want to hang out with Chloe. She’s really friendly and I bet she’s fun. But I’m so nervous. I’m meeting her and some of her other friends at a bar where a local band is playing. I don’t know the bar, I don’t know the band, and I don’t know the other people who’ll be here. I don’t really know Chloe that well either. Clearly I haven’t outgrown all my shyness, because this situation is the type of thing that makes me anxious.
But Caleb is right. I should take a chance and make some friends.
I pull open the door and noise spills out like smoke billowing into the night air. Electric guitar, drums, and an undercurrent of heavy bass notes. A man’s voice carries above the melody—raspy and rough with a depth that makes him sound like he’s attempting to be both soulful and edgy.
The lights are dim and conversation buzzes beneath the music. I take a few tentative steps inside and the door closes behind me. It feels like I’ve stepped into another world—one where the atmosphere is too thick, the air pressing at me from all directions. My face flushes from the heat of all the bodies. The bar is packed and the scent of cheap beer mingles with hints of dozens of different perfumes and colognes.
I loosen my grip on my purse; I was clutching it like someone was trying to rip it out of my hands. My shoulders are tight, hunched up near my ears, so I consciously relax them. I must look like a terrified little kid, standing just inside the door, my wide eyes sweeping the crowd.
Deep breath, Linnea. You can do this.
I spot Chloe at a table that’s packed with people. She’s the epitome of a rock and roll girl, with a short pixie cut dyed pink, piercings in her lip and nose—and who knows where else—and several colorful tattoos. Her ripped jean shorts are so short, but she has great legs, so why not. A loose black shirt hangs off one shoulder, showing a bright red bra strap, and I wonder how she can walk in those studded platform heels.
I’m suddenly overcome with self-consciousness at my own outfit. If I was going to the theater or the sy
mphony, I’d be dressed well, but my cream blouse and herringbone pencil skirt make me feel like a stuffy librarian compared to Chloe. I love my red heels, and they do add a pop of color. But I don’t know if they’re enough to offset the painfully proper look I always wear.
Maybe I should just go.
Chloe spots me and waves, so I squeeze through the crowded tables. Her face lights up with a bright smile.
“There she is!” She raises her voice to be heard above the music. “Guys, this is Linnea. Linnea, this is… well, this is everybody.”
I smile and wave at the sea of faces in front of me; the table is bar-height, so everyone is standing. I’m glad she didn’t throw all their names at me, because I’d never remember. Not with the music pounding in my ears and the press of people around me. I try to keep my face casual and friendly, but inside I’m all knotted.
Somehow the table occupants are managing to carry on a conversation amid the noise. It’s hard to follow, so I stay quiet and try to pay attention in case someone talks to me directly. I think they’re talking about the band, but I’m not sure.
Chloe nudges me with her elbow and leans in. “So, what do you think? Great place, huh?”
“Yeah.” I should follow that with something else—maybe comment on why this bar is great—but I can’t think of anything to say. I hesitate too long, but manage to spit out, “Thanks for inviting me.”
“No problem. If you want a drink, you have to fight your way to the bar.” She nods in the direction of the far side where the bar is almost entirely obscured by people.
There’s no way I’m shoving my way through all that to get a drink, but I don’t want her to think I’m boring, so I just nod. “Okay.”
The band begins another song—it sounds exactly like the last one—and I can’t decide if I should be paying attention to the band or the conversation at the table that I can barely hear. The D string on the guitar is slightly out of tune, making every chord a little discordant to my ears. I know I can hear things other people can’t, so I doubt most people are bothered by it. But now that I’ve noticed, it’s hard to focus on anything but the one wave of sound that doesn’t fit, its tone slightly flat.
“So, Linnea, where are you from?” a guy next to me asks.
“Michigan,” I say.
He nods, the motion of his head slowing, like he’s waiting for me to say something else. But I answered his question. What else does he want to know?
“What about you?” I ask, fumbling for something to say.
“I grew up here,” he says.
I nod back and feel my cheeks warm again. I wish I was better at this, but I have no idea how to make small talk—especially not with people I don’t know. He turns away from me and takes a sip of his beer. I try not to pick at the zipper on my purse.
The people around the table erupt with laughter, but I must have missed the joke.
“This is why I love you guys,” Chloe says, still laughing. She turns to me. “I gotta pee. Need to go?”
“No thanks.”
“I’ll be back,” she says and disappears into the crowd.
Time drags on and I stand next to the table, feeling increasingly awkward. Everyone else seems to be having such a great time. They drink, talk, laugh, slap each other on the back, or point to other people around the bar.
I keep trying to think of something to say that might contribute to the conversation, but I don’t come up with anything. The flat string on the guitar twangs in my ear, making my back clench, and I start to wonder how it’s not bothering anyone but me.
Chloe comes back, but stops to talk to a guy across the table. Her eyes flick over to me once or twice, as do his. I’m pretty sure they’re talking about me. I shouldn’t stare, but I watch his mouth and make out the words, does she ever talk? Chloe shrugs and keeps talking, but I look away.
I wish I wasn’t like this. I wish I understood how to make friends like normal people do. It’s not that I have no self-esteem, or feel badly about myself all the time; I don’t. But I get so tongue-tied and anxious when I’m around people I don’t know. I worry I’m going to say the wrong thing, or my mind goes blank and I can’t think of anything to say. Getting to know people in college was a little easier; a lot of the students in the music program were quiet like me. But it still took me most of my first year to make even a single friend.
This scene—hanging out in a bar with a bunch of people who I’m sure are perfectly nice and fun—should be fine. But every minute I’m here, the knot in my stomach tightens. My throat is so dry I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make a sound if I do speak. I feel myself fading into the background, people’s gazes passing over me like I’m not here. Like I’m invisible.
I force myself to stay a while longer, hoping it gets better. Maybe Chloe will come stand next to me again and I can think of something to talk to her about. But she doesn’t. She makes eye contact with me a few times and smiles, but she’s wrapped up in a very animated conversation with a guy and another girl across the table. I think they’re talking about their tattoos, because Chloe lifts her shirt, revealing a wreath of flowers encircling her belly button.
The guitarist really needs to take a break between songs and tune his guitar. I glance over at the bar, wondering if it’s thinned out enough that I can go get a drink, but if anything, the crowd is thicker. The noise feels heavy, like it’s weighing me down. The guy who asked me where I’m from glances at me again, but he’s not looking at my face. His eyes are on my chest—typical—and after a moment, he looks away.
The band rolls into yet another song and I sigh. Not only is the guitar slightly out of tune, but every song is depressing. They seem to be going for an angsty grunge sound, but after the fifth or sixth song, it starts to sound monotone and whiny.
I lose track of Chloe; maybe she went to the bar, or back to the bathroom. I want to go, but I don’t want to leave without saying goodbye. It’s bad enough that I showed up and just stood here, not talking to anyone. I wait about five more minutes, but she doesn’t appear.
I’ve had about all I can take, so I slip away from the table. When I glance back over my shoulder before leaving, I can’t see any sign that anyone noticed I’m gone.
Outside on the sidewalk, I take a deep breath of the fresh night air. Traffic whizzes by, but the sound of engines and wheels on pavement is melodic compared to the oppressive weight of noise in the bar.
I pull out my phone and send a text to Chloe, thanking her for inviting me, and letting her know I have to get up early for work tomorrow. Which is true, I do. Charlotte has school, and even though Caleb will be home, mornings are better for everyone when I help them get ready for the day.
Rather than waiting for the bus, I order an Uber. It isn’t far, so it won’t cost much, and I just want to get home. I only have to wait a few minutes and my ride pulls up to the curb.
When I get back to Caleb’s house, I’m greeted by the soft glow of lights in the downstairs windows. Charlotte should be in bed by now, but it looks like he’s still up. I’m careful to be quiet when I come inside, just in case he went to bed and left the lights on for me.
I find him on the couch with a laptop in his lap, the TV on but muted. He looks up and his smile melts away some of the anxiety I was feeling.
“Hey,” he says. “You’re back early.”
I sink down into an armchair and let my shoes slide off my feet. “Yeah, I guess.”
“How was it?”
What do I say? I hated it because it made me feel invisible again? I’m worried he’s going to be disappointed in me if I tell him the truth.
“It was fun,” I say. “The band wasn’t really my style, but live music is nice anyway.”
“Good,” he says. “Was it just… what was her name?”
“Chloe,” I say. “And no, there were a lot of people. The place was packed and Chloe was there with a big group. They were nice.”
He nods a little, his eyes lingering on my face with that
expression I can’t read. “That’s great. I’m glad you had fun. I hope you didn’t come home early on my account. I know Charlotte has school tomorrow, but I can take her if you want to sleep in.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay. I was ready to come home.” I tuck my feet up under me and gesture at his laptop. “Are you working?”
“No.” He closes it and moves it to the coffee table. “No, I was just looking a few things up.” He grabs the remote and holds it out to me. “If you want to watch TV or something, feel free. Or, maybe you’re ready for bed.”
I take the remote. “Thanks. I’m not all that tired.”
He smiles again and it makes me all tingly inside. “Me neither. So, what should we do?”
Make out on the couch?
My cheeks warm and I turn my attention to the TV, hoping he doesn’t notice. I bring up Netflix and scroll through the options. “Is there anything you like to watch?”
“I’m up for whatever. I don’t have any shows I watch regularly or anything.”
“Really? None?”
“Nope. Not unless you count My Little Pony.”
“Well, at least that show isn’t too terrible.”
“I have learned that friendship is magic, so I have that going for me.”
I laugh. “It’s a good lesson. What about Supernatural?”
“No, haven’t watched it.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’re kidding.”
“Not in the least.”
I scroll through and find Supernatural, then bring up the first season. “Okay, we definitely have to remedy that. I can’t believe you don’t know Sam and Dean.”
“Sounds like I’m missing out.”
“You have no idea,” I say. “This is my favorite show.”
“I’m excited to watch it with you, then,” he says.
Our eyes meet and there’s that expression again—the one I can’t read. We stare at each other for a few heartbeats too long. But instead of making me feel anxious and uncomfortable, the prolonged eye contact is pleasant. True, it makes my tummy swirl with a little flutter of nerves. But it’s a feeling of excitement, rather than dread.
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