Finally, a barely perceptible nod.
Our tabs are already settled, so I give him the slightest of head tilts before I slide out of my side of the booth and slowly walk toward the door. I can see his reflection in it as I reach out to push it open.
He’s following me, a definite limp making him bob a little as he walks. He carries a battered canvas messenger bag that seems perfectly him, somehow.
I slow my exit so I’m holding the door open for him when he walks through.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, pausing on the sidewalk to see which way I head.
We walk together in silence, not arm-in-arm or holding hands. Just two DC suits heading somewhere this evening.
Nothing to see here.
He’s about an inch shorter than my six-two and easily keeps up with my limping stride.
At my building’s front door, I already have my keys out and I’m glancing around. We’re alone, and thankfully there’s no one in the lobby getting their mail. Taking a calculated risk, when I open the door for him, I keep my hand on it, elbow up, forcing him to duck under my arm.
He does, without hesitation.
Hopefully, the smile I’m wearing doesn’t scare him as I step around him and head for the stairs.
Only thing I don’t like about my building is it’s a walkup and I’m on the third floor. But the rent’s reasonable, because I’m subletting from a guy I work with who’s on assignment in London for a couple of years and who doesn’t want to let go of the apartment in case he ever decides to move back. It’s a quiet building, the basement workout room’s decent, and most of its residents are long-term civil servants.
It also means I get a bit of a workout every day, whether I want it or not, just by leaving my apartment.
At least I’m not on the fourth or fifth floors.
That would suuuuuuck.
We’re already on the second-floor landing when I apologize. “Sorry. I should have mentioned I’m on the third floor.” I mean, I’mnotsorry but it seems proper to offer an apology.
Plus, I want to hear his reaction.
He’s not even breathing heavily, even though he’s taking his time and heavily relying on the handrail lining the stairwell. “No big deal. I live in a third-floor walkup.”
Not smiling isn’t an option. “Something else we have in common then.”
“Yeah.”
Then a thought hits me and I pause, turning. “Not on C Street, are you?”Please, don’t let him live there.
He looks confused. “No. Why?”
If he doesn’t know, I realize that’s another conversation we need to have.
At another time. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. I was curious.”
Between college, training for the Secret Service, and then active service, I never learned how to live anything but lightly. Even though at this stage of my life I have a place of my own and don’t usually have to jet off at a moment’s notice any longer.
I could also afford a place much larger and more expensive than the one I’m in, but I like the neighborhood, I like the price, and it’s a short walk on a good day to most everywhere I need to go. If the weather’s bad, or it’s not a good day for me pain-wise, it’s easy to call a cab or ride service to pick me up and ferry me around. I don’t have a car. If I need one for work, I rent one and expense it.
More money and aggravation saved on my part. Besides, I enjoy watching my savings account grow every month.
Something else my native-Californian parents and sister cannot understand—how I can get by without a car of my own, or why I choose to live in a tiny one-bedroom apartment.
I’m at the end of the hall, another reason I like this apartment. It’s quiet and gives me a little more privacy. I unlock and open the door, then quickly disarm my alarm. After I flip the lights on, I wait for Elliot to step inside past me before dropping my keys in the bowl on the bookshelf next to the door. I lock us in and he stands there in my entry looking…lost.
Stepping close, into his personal space, I look into his blue eyes and wait.
