More so now that I live alone.Sometimes, it’s like the whole world is shut off, and it’s too much, too lonely, too … empty.Like I’ve finally run farther than anyone could find me and I don't know my way back.
Sometimes, the only sound that keeps me company is Sterling typing from ten desks away.
Sometimes, I like to imagine he’s as lonely as I am.
“I’m curious,” he says.“Two years is a long time to write about local events and beauty trends when your heart is set elsewhere.When you could be helping in a more meaningful way.”
It hurts, even if I’ve made the same complaint to Alice before, but having Sterling see me like that … well, maybe it’s proof I’m not cut out for the job I really want.
Maybe I don’t have the stomach or the heart for it.
But I haven’t stopped trying yet, and I’m not about to let anyone—even the great Sterling Ross—talk me out of it.
“I do help people,” I say.
We turn a corner and blend into the crowd.Food is nearby, a block away at most.Restaurants spill out onto the sidewalk, their rich aromas beckoning us forward.
“Maybe not in the way I really want to, but you can’t dismiss the help because it’s not geared toward you or doesn’t look like you think it should.”
People huddle tightly together as they wait for a table.The cold won’t turn them away.This city is made of harder stuff than that.
“You’re right; I apologize.”
I think about all the nights I’ve watched him work, silent in his vigilance, always pushing further.What does he do to unwind?Where does he find joy?
Or does he avoid it as ruthlessly as he does everything else?
“Look around us.This is what makes this city beautiful.It’s us, life.All the ways we’re constantly seeking it, come rain or shine or money or exhaustion.It’s complimenting a stranger’s outfit, tipping the waiter, joining in when a restaurant sings ‘Happy Birthday.’It’s lending someone your umbrella or giving them directions or stepping in when the creep at the bar gets too close.It’s kindness and support, not as performance, but as an act of peace.”
We pause at the intersection, pressed close, and his sigh is loud enough for me to hear it.
“I’ve seen a lot, doing this job, talked to men who hate the world and would leech it dry simply so no one else could have it.Any day that I can get in their way, slow them down, or—if I’m really lucky—stop them is a great day.Because people like you,” he says, staring down at me, “good people—deserve it.If what you’re writing makes you happy, that’s all that matters.”
His eyes look black out here, the blue swallowed up.It makes his sincerity too intense, his focus a laser cutting straight through me.
I have to look away.
Across the street, a shop catches my eye.As black as the road, as alluring as the korma calling my name.Chance’s Curious Creations, the sign reads.
Something tugs, and my feet follow.
A bell jingles as we enter.A strange feeling washes over me, buoyant and bubbling.
It’s nothing like I expected from the outside, organized and modern, with neat racks of pouches and potions lining the walls, the room stretching forward like a question—Do you dare answer?
Curious, I continue.Sterling hovers close behind me, his coat brushing mine, the heat of his hand at my back.
A young woman with bright pink hair smiles from behind the counter as we pass by, her gaze crossing between Sterling and me.She says nothing.
Items change from bottles to books to jewelry.
“Do you smell that?”I whisper to Sterling once we’re deep in the back, far from the shopkeeper’s ears.
Memories crash over me, unbidden: Alice testing recipes, flushed pink and wild-eyed, the kitchen a sweet haven of cookies and muffins and cakes.Sunday mornings, Louis drowning waffles in syrup, Ma dancing to the radio, Pa stuck in the paper.
“I’ve never …” Sterling whispers, the pallor of his face stark and gray under the harsh overhead light.“It can’t be.”
His voice is ghostly, and the feeling inside me flares, pulling at the corners of my mind, stretching me out thin.Before and after.Once and again.
