by Jiffy Kate
“Harper,” Mr. Chan says, beaming at me over the counter. “What you like?”
“Um, I’ll have a hot and sour soup,” I tell him. “With extra wontons, please.” A few minutes later, Mr. Chan hands a brown paper sack over the counter. “Can I pay you on Thursday?”
“On the house.” He smiles softly and nods his head.
Normally, I’d argue with him, but not this time. “Thank you, Mr. Chan.”
After hurrying up the stairs, I don’t beeline to the window for once. I toss my things on my bed and go straight for the soup. I smile when I open the bag because there is soup and extra wontons, like I asked for, but there’s also a carton of chicken and broccoli with two fortune cookies.
As I’m stuffing my face with delicious Chinese food, my cell phone dings. No one ever texts me. Layla says that she always has too much to say, which is the truth, and Mia is too impatient. My stomach flips because I know it’s going to be Wyatt, and I’m not sure how to feel about that. Sure, he was nice, and sure, it feels good to have someone’s attention, but I don’t know if I want to go on another date, and I suck at telling people no. Somehow, I always get talked into whatever it is they want or need me to do.
I sit for a few more minutes, enjoying my soup, but then curiosity gets the best of me, and I reach for my phone.
Wyatt’s texts have continued steadily since our date, sometimes just to say hello and other times to ask how my day was. In one, he asked me to go out with him again this weekend, and I gave the excuse of needing to go to my mom’s family therapy session today. He said it was fine and he’d be happy to take me out tonight. He makes it so easy for me.
The harder I try to not like him, the harder he tries to make me like him. Or maybe he’s not trying. Maybe it’s just how he is. Easy.
I should want that—him. But I don’t even have to ask myself why I don’t. Actually, I don’t want to go there, knowing the answer makes me sound crazy and in need of my own therapy.
He wasn’t in the window this morning. I haven’t seen him since a hot, steamy episode on Wednesday night. The girl looked familiar, someone he’d been with before. He’ll do that occasionally, but it’s been a while.
The fact that he’s had that one more than once makes me wonder what it is about her that’s so special. She had messy waves in her dark hair. Instead of taking her from behind, like he does so often, he pulled a chair over by the window and sat down, pulling her on top of him. He wanted to see her face. He kept brushing her hair away and holding it back. Her tits would bounce in his face, and he’d catch one of them in his mouth, sucking it in.
I wonder what that feels like. From the way she threw her head back, I can only guess that it felt amazing. Something else I noticed was that he held her to him while they were fucking and briefly afterward. He seemed desperate and needy. She didn’t stay or do anything else out of the ordinary, but after watching him for so long, I noticed little differences in his behavior.
That night, instead of a glass, he brought the entire bottle of alcohol with him to the window after the woman left, and he stood there for what seemed like hours, taking drinks and staring out into the night. I couldn’t stop watching him. I didn’t go to bed until midnight that night, and I paid for it the rest of the week.
Stretching lazily, I wonder if he’ll be around today. And then I hope he’s not, because I have to leave in an hour to walk to the rehab facility, and I have no idea how long the therapy session will last since this is the first one I’ll be attending. After that, I’ll have to come back here to get dressed to go out with Wyatt.
I hop out of bed and go straight for the binoculars, hoping for a glimpse of him to hold me over. The window is empty, and his apartment is dim, with no lights or movement. I feel a twinge of longing, but I push it down. Maybe he’ll be there later tonight when I get back.
After I shower and dress, I grab a bowl of cereal and read a few chapters in the book I checked out for the weekend. It helps pass the time and keeps me from obsessing over what’s not on the other side of the window this morning...or who, rather.
Walking toward the facility, I think about stopping for a Kit Kat for my mom as a peace offering, but I’m still pissed about our last talk. She doesn’t deserve my time, and she definitely doesn’t deserve chocolate. I don’t even know why I’m going in the first place. Layla said to do it for myself, for closure if nothing else, so I guess that’s a good reason to go. At least I won’t have regrets, and I’ll know I did everything I could.
I’m not the quitter. My mother is.
With that thought in mind, I walk quicker and with more purpose. I’m ready to get this shit over with.
At the front desk, I show my I.D. and tell the lady working there that I’m Harper Evans and I’m here for Sadie Evans’ family session. She looks down at a chart and frowns, pausing for longer than seems necessary.
“What?” I ask, my heart pounding because all I can think of are worst case scenarios. Maybe she left. Maybe she got a hold of some drugs and overdosed. Maybe she’s dead.
“Looks like they bumped the session up, so it’s already going. You’re late.” She looks back up at me and continues to frown, like I’ve disappointed her.
Something like relief washes over me. It startles me that I’d still feel that for my mom after everything she’s done and everything she’s said to me. But in this moment, I know I’m not just here for myself. Somewhere deep down, I’m still hoping for a miracle...hoping she’ll love me.
“I’m sorry. I was told the session was scheduled for eleven. By my calculations, I still have five minutes to spare.”
“You missed last week’s session. It was rescheduled for ten forty-five. You’re late. Follow me,” she instructs and begins walking down a long corridor. Stopping at the last door on the right, she knocks twice before sticking her head into the room and announcing that I’m here in an annoyed tone. When she turns back around, I smile apologetically, but it does nothing to defrost her icy gaze.
I can see where she might think I’m the one to blame here or that I’m not supportive, but the fact that she knows nothing about me or my life or how we ended up here pisses me the hell off. When she turns to walk away, I flip her off behind her back and walk into the room, letting the door close behind me.
And then my entire world tilts on its axis.
My breath catches in my throat.
My heart pounds in my chest.
I swallow hard as I try to regain composure, but I can’t get even an ounce of air past the grip my shock has on my throat.
Oh, dear God. The room is spinning.
“Harper?” My mom’s voice echoes in my ears, and I realize I’m turned around with my hand on the door knob, ready to bolt. I rest my forehead against the cool metal door and try to regain my composure before turning back around.
It’s him.
He’s sitting in the chair opposite my mother.
I struggle to get enough oxygen into my lungs to keep me from passing out, and I attempt a smile.
“I’m Mr. Walker,” he says, and I can’t make coherent thoughts, let alone words, so I just nod. He offers his hand, and I freeze. I’ve wondered for so long what his touch would feel like, and being in this room with him and him offering me his hand is too much. I don’t know if I can do this, but I want to. Reaching out, I place my hand in his, and I close my eyes, memorizing the warmth and the way it sets my body on fire. How one simple, innocent touch can do that is beyond me. I can’t comprehend what’s going on inside me right now, so I sit and let him talk, his silky smooth voice filling the space around me. He could be reciting the phone book, and I would be hanging on his every word.
“Thank you for coming today, Harper,” he says, and the way my name sounds coming from his mouth is what my dreams will be made of from this moment on. “Sadie and I have been discussing her progress so far. Would you like to catch your daughter up on what we’ve been talking about?” he asks my mother.
She look
s over at me, and I can tell by the quizzical look in her eye that she’s trying to figure out what’s going on with me. “I’ve been clean for seventy-six days,” she begins. The rest of the words coming out of her mouth are lost on me. The few things I pick up on are things I’ve heard before. She probably has this memorized. Sadie is good at making people think she’s got her shit together, but it never lasts long. The longest I ever remember her being around and being sober is a few weeks. She stuck around after my dad died and tried to pretend like she was going to be the mother I always needed, but after the funeral and after all the family left, she couldn’t handle it. The day-to-day struggle was too much for her. I woke up one morning, a sixteen-year-old scared girl, to an empty house. She’d taken anything of value, and she’d left.
While she talks, I watch him. If he notices, he doesn’t look up. He keeps his gaze on my mother, with his hands tented and pressed to his lips. I can tell there are things he doesn’t believe in her story. I can see it in his eyes, the ones that are such a brilliant shade of blue that I’m lost in them. I’ve often wondered what color they were. I feel like I’m watching him like I normally do, but it’s in high definition. When he takes his gaze off her and directs it to me, my breath catches in my throat again, and I swear my heart stops beating. I turn my eyes to the floor, unable to hold his gaze.
“Harper, this week’s session is for talking about how you both feel. It’s important to get those feelings out in the open. This is a safe zone. Anything you say here will be treated with the utmost confidence. Sadie had a chance to share her feelings last week, so why don’t you go first this week?”
He wants me to talk. To him. About my feelings. “I can’t do that,” I blurt out before I even have a chance to think about it. There is no way in hell I can do this. I should leave, but that would mean not seeing him without two windows and two hundred feet between us. I can’t do that either.
“You can,” he assures me. “Sadie, you’d like to hear how Harper feels, wouldn’t you?”
I don’t look at him, because I can’t, but I look over to my mom and see her watching me. She nods her head before clearing her throat. “Yes, I would.” I almost believe her, but after her confessions a couple of weeks ago, I find it hard to believe that she cares about anything I have to say. And I sure as hell don’t think telling her how I feel will make a difference.
“She needs to hear how you feel,” he encourages me. “It’s part of her rehabilitation. One of the most beneficial steps is seeing how her addictions have affected her family—owning her actions. Clearing the air is imperative.”
I take my chances and look up at him. He’s more beautiful in person than he is behind the glass. The other two times I’ve seen him outside of his apartment, I never got a chance to see him from the front, so this is new to me. Everything about being in this room with him is overwhelming my senses—the touch of his hand, the smell of his cologne, the way his voice soothes my soul and sets it on fire at the same time. I close my eyes and take a deep breath before exhaling.
Taking a minute, I pretend I’m thinking about my reply, but really, I’m struggling to think coherently and not sound like a complete idiot. “I, uh...I’m not sure how I feel. I guess... I’m hopeful.”
“Hopeful is good,” he encourages. When our eyes lock for a beat too long, I nervously shift my gaze back to the floor. “What else?”
“Numb,” I say honestly. “I feel like I’ve done this before, so many times, and I don’t have any feelings left.”
I hear him shift in his seat as he leans forward, forcing my eyes back up to him. “That’s normal,” he assures. “Over time, our emotions and feelings get removed from the situation. It’s our body’s natural response—a way of protecting itself.” He pauses for a minute and then turns his attention back to my mother. “Sadie, how long have you been an addict?”
“I don’t know...at least twenty-four years.”
“Harper, how old are you?” he asks.
“Twenty-four.”
The silence in the room is deafening. He begins to make notes on his notepad, and I wonder if he’s connecting the dots, realizing that I’m the reason. It’s all my fault.
I wonder if he hates me too.
For the remainder of the session, I keep my eyes on the floor and only speak when asked a question. When it’s finally over, I don’t even say goodbye to my mother or to him. I hurry out the door like the place is on fire. Even though everything inside me is yelling stay, my brain is still smarter than that, and it’s telling me I need space and air. Every muscle in my body is screaming for relief. The tension made me physically exhausted, like I’ve ran a marathon.
When I get outside the building, I rest my hands on my knees and take a deep, cleansing breath. My head's still spinning with the past thirty minutes, and I can’t get a grip. Glancing across the street, I see the small coffee shop I’ve noticed before, and I decide that’s what I need before making the walk back to my apartment. Something to wake me up and lift the fog that came with sitting in the same room as him.
Did that really just happen?
It’s weird, because I’ve followed him down the street, and I’ve watched him for hours through the window, but none of that could’ve prepared me for being in a confined space with him.
As I step through the door of the small coffee shop, the bell chimes, and the man behind the counter greets me. I walk up and order a black coffee. I don’t need fluff. Actually, I feel like I need something stronger than coffee, but this will have to do.
After paying, I slide down to the end of the bar and wait for my cup. The door chimes again, and the man behind the counter calls out another greeting, but it’s more familiar than the one he offered me.
“Luke,” the man says with a smile in his voice.
Turning my head to the side, I see him. I smell him. He’s close enough I could reach out and touch him, but I don’t. I close my eyes and inhale, even though I was just in his presence ten minutes ago. I feel like I’m taking a hit, like I’m the junkie.
“Mac,” he says, nodding to the man behind the counter. “How’s the coffee business today?”
His voice is so smooth, even better than when we were in the session. It’s more relaxed, less professional.
“Can’t complain,” Mac says, sliding a cup across the counter.
Luke. Luke Walker. I repeat his name over and over in my head, letting it seep into my bones.
I take a chance and look over at him again, needing to match the name I’ve wanted to know for so long with the man I’ve wanted for even longer.
He glances over at me, and recognition flashes across his achingly beautiful face. “Hello,” he says, nodding and taking the lid off the cup before taking a drink. I can’t stop myself from watching his lips. They entrance me, the way they pull together to test the hot liquid. I’ve seen him do something similar before, but it’s different with him standing right in front of me.
“Harper?” he asks.
I realize I’m standing there, making a complete fool out of myself again. My cheeks flame, and I nod. “Yes,” I squeak out.
“It was really brave of you to come today. I know the first session can be hard, but you did great.” The confidence in his voice is mesmerizing. “I hope I’ll see you again next Saturday?”
It’s a question. He wants me to answer. He hopes he sees me again next Saturday. “Yes,” I blurt out, wide-eyed, hoping I don’t look as crazy on the outside as I feel on the inside.
“Great.” He nods his head, dipping down for another sip of coffee. “Well, have a nice day, Harper.” And then he does something that I don’t get to see often enough. He smiles.
I swallow hard and smile back. “You too,” I say quietly, holding the cup of coffee close to me. I stand there and watch him leave, hurrying back across the street. His long legs take on a wide stride. He slips his free hand into his pocket while he continues to sip the coffee. I continue watching him until he disappears behind
the gray doors.
“Can I get you something else?” the man behind the counter asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“No.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Thank you.” I force a smile and walk out the door, thinking about going back into the facility and finding him but knowing I can’t. I wouldn’t know the first thing to say, and I know it wouldn’t matter anyway. But I have no idea how I’m going to go back to watching him in the window after today.
I wanted this. I wanted a chance to know him—his name, his voice, his touch—but now that I have it, I don’t know what to do with it.
“You seem distracted.” Wyatt is staring at me from across the table as he brings a long-neck bottle to his lips. There’s a part of me—the part that hasn’t been with anyone in so long she forgot what it was like, the part that knows he’s really good-looking—that wants to like him like I think he likes me, but I can’t...I don’t. And it wouldn’t be fair to him to pretend that I do.
“I just have a lot on my mind.” I take a drink of my water and glance over to look out the window we’re seated next to. There’s no way I can tell him what’s really on my mind: I just met the object of my affection, who I peep at through my binoculars while he has sex with women, and who I occasionally stalk. Oh, by the way, he’s also my mother’s therapist. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around that fact.
“You can talk to me, you know.”
I look back at him and smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. Maybe I should unload on Wyatt. Maybe then he’d realize what a mess my life is and stop trying so hard. “You don’t want to hear about my problems.”
“If you want to tell me about them, I do,” he says, and I believe him, but it still doesn’t make me want to tell him. I know from the things he’s told me that his family is damn near perfect. His sister, Samantha, is married to a wealthy banker, and they live in Dallas. His parents have been married for over thirty years. His grandparents have been married for almost seventy. They have big family dinners and spend every holiday together. How do I fit into something like that?
