When I stand at the edge of the wine-stained rug, he smiles one of his delectable smiles, letting his eyes drift over me, almost sparkling, and says, “Five.”
“You’re such a kindergarten teacher.” I shake my head and grab my purse off the entry table.
He follows me out of my apartment and while I lock up, he comments, “You love it.”
I want to play it cool, but I fail miserably and I confirm, “I love it.”
I smile wider as he stares down at me, tilting my chin up just enough to let him know if he wanted to kiss me, he could. The expression in his eyes and the smile reaching his dimples tell me he understands. My heart jumps in my chest as he reaches out a confident hand to swipe my hair behind my ear.
“If I kiss you now, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.”
The disappointment must be visible on my face because he tucks a finger under my chin and says, “Don’t worry, there will be time for that.”
We leave my building hand in hand, both of us instinctively reaching for the other and walking to Pizza Portofino. It’s a lush and slightly upscale restaurant tucked along the riverwalk in downtown Chicago. Twinkling lights are strung from the ceiling and create a canopy of glow above the outside seating, where we sit at a table meant for two next to the quiet hush of the river water just as the sun goes down. We have pizza with pepperoni and honey and truffle. We split a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and spend the next hour chatting about our weeks as if we’ve known each other for eternity. Our knees bumps and our hands continue to find each other. Even though each touch sends tingles across my flesh, it all feels incredibly familiar. As if he has been mine forever and this is our typical Friday night.
After he pays for the check, we head up the stone staircase leading to the Clark Street Bridge. He laces his fingers in mine and I pull his arm to my chest, reluctantly soaking in the feeling of almost falling in love. While the city is moving and the apartment windows are lit with typical life, I can’t help but feel completely swept.
The soft pads of our shoes echo against the sounds of the city. I love it here. The quiet buzz of the city. The water of the river flowing beneath our feet as we cross the bridge. The warmth of JP’s hand. The way I lean into him as we walk and the way he leans back.
He makes me feel the best kind of desperate.
We weave our way through the city, walking off the pizza and wine until we reach the Navy Pier. He hasn’t said the plan for the rest of the evening but I’m happy to follow his every footstep.
“Do you know what my favorite part of Friday and Saturday nights between Memorial Day and Labor Day are?” he asks when we reach the end of the pier.
“Hmmm...” I pretend to think as I turn and rest my back against the railing, letting the wind whip through my hair. “Is it that we aren’t buried under bone-cold snow?”
He places a hand on either side of me, gripping the railing and cornering me with his arms. He looks down at me through his lashes.
“No,” he whispers, cupping his hand around my face, letting his fingertips dip into my hair. “This.”
He sinks his lips against mine just as the fireworks off the dock shoot into the night sky, illuminating the world around us in sharp, bright bursts. When he pulls back, I watch the fireworks reflected in his eyes. Red. Yellow. Purple. Green. A kaleidoscope of colors in his eyes.
He takes me by the wrist and spins me around so my back is nestled against his chest. I sink into him, loving how the shapeof me curves perfectly against the shape of him. As the fireworks show draws to a close, I tilt my chin up to look at him and say, “Take me home tonight.”
He kisses my neck and holds me tighter. “Only if you’ll help me with an art project.”
WE TAKE THE RED LINEto his apartment. He lives in Wicker Park in a brick apartment complex, and his unit resembles more of a townhouse, but upon entry, there are four units, two downstairs and two upstairs. We climb the stairs to his place. My heartbeat pounds with each step as I anticipate what will happen once we’re inside, wrapped in each other’s arms with the door locked, and need pulsing.
When he opens his door, he swings it wide so I can enter, and I laugh, all my pent up tension evaporating with it.
He grins, smug. “I told you. Art project.” He waves a hand at his living room.
Under normal circumstances, this is an amazing apartment. Light wood floors with a jute rug layered with a taupe and cream patterned rug. A big, comfy couch with only two throw pillows and a giant, leather ottoman as a coffee table. The end tables match and are illuminated with twin lamps. A giant bookcase sits in the corner.
But the real showstopper is the giant piece of red fabric half-rolled out across the floor. Paint markers are scattered next to a case of them on the floor.
I step closer. “What is this?”
“A red carpet,” he says, slipping off his jacket and hanging it on the rack by the door. “Drink?”
My gaze follows him as he enters the kitchen. “Jacob Preston Chapman, you need to explain this.” I splay my arms out in front of me, gesturing to the ‘red carpet’ in which he speaks.
“Next week is kindergarten graduation,” he says, pulling open the cupboard above the stove. “Wine or bourbon?”
“Bourbon,” I answer but I’m still trying to connect all the dots from kindergarten graduation to red carpet. My kindergarten graduation—albeit twenty-five years ago—included a cookie and certificate stuffed in my Lisa Frank backpack and given to my mom after I rode home on the bus. Times are different now, I suppose. I bend down to read the inscriptions written on the fabric with the paint markers. “The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.” I smile and kneel next to the red carpet.
“Eleanor Roosevelt,” he says. There’s a shuffling in the kitchen, and a sweet, smoky scent hits the air. “Do you want yours smoked?”
