I take a chair out of the kitchen and set it right by the door. I plop down, cross my legs, fold my arms over my chest, and rock forward. I’m right by the buzzer.
We agreed on eleven. I still have forty minutes to wait.
I don’t know how I’m going to make it. That’s a fuck of a lot of deep breathing to have to do.
I start anyway.
Either I drift into my breaths, or the buzzer goes off early. My phone is on the table. I don’t rush to grab it and check the time. It’s not like I’m going to make him wait outside until exactly eleven.
There’s no screen that shows who’s there. It’s an old, outdated buzzer, like most of this apartment. The building is decent, though, and the rent is affordable. I was living here while I was paying tuition, trying to stretch student loans, and takingwhat online freelance work I could find, in just about any area. I kept the place after for… uh…obviousreasons.
I don’t ask who it is. There’s only one person it could be.
My body wants to go straight back into a bad nervous reaction, but I shoot up, wipe my damp palms on my skirt, and force myself to breathe as I press the buzzer to open the front door. I breathe. Wait. Inhale. Exhale.
My hand shoots out and gropes for the wall beside the buzzer. I press my palm down against the cool surface, focusing on the slightly raised texture, the little bump where something was repainted over, or the paint gooped up. I close my eyes, wanting to run, wanting to hide, wanting to be bold and step forward and open the door before Maverick even gets to the top of those three flights of stairs.
Is he taking them two at a time? Picking his way up painfully slowly, hesitating with every step? Did he bring something? What do I do if he brought flowers? Friends can bring friends flowers. Do other people feel this way, when they know someone intimately, and are known in return, but only ever on paper? How many people have met face to face and found that the person they thought they knew was completely different?
It’s better to try and be disappointed than to let the fear of disappointment that may never come overwhelm me. I know that.I know it. It’s just so hard to fullybelieveit.
Before I can self-destruct, the fire door at the top of the stairway opens and closes. I hear his steps in the hall.
I wish I could be the woman I was in my letters. Wise. Constant. Somewhat normal, but this is real life and I’m all overthe place. How can I just pretend that everything is okay or even hope that all will be well? Talking myself into this offered a false sense of security and serenity.
He doesn’t have to knock. I slide the chain lock off the door, undo the deadbolt, and twist the lock on the handle. When I open the door, he freezes right in front of it.
I almost blurt out the whole truth right then, before Maverick can even utter a single word, but it’s more than just the fact of how crazy that would be that keeps me silent. I’d like to cling to whatever peace I might have, whatever goodness, for just a few more moments.
Also, this is Maverick.
Real. In person.Here.
All I had was that ten-year-old mugshot photo of him. I’d wondered endlessly what Maverick would look like after a decade, and a hard one at that. How he would have aged orbeenaged. How the years sat. A mugshot isn’t flattering by any means, but his likely caused quite a furor. No one agreed with his conviction and knowing that while what he did was illegal, it was alsomorallycorrect, makes it easier to admit to the stark masculine beauty apparent in what should have been a terrible photo.
Ten years later, the effortless good looks of his early twenties have solidified into something older, wiser, and infinitely more intriguing.
He’s taller than I imagined, even though I could see the height labelled in his photo. He’s far broader. He’s put on weight, but it’s all muscle. I remember how many times he wrote about working out being such a salvation. His high cheekbonesstand out prominently over slightly hollow cheeks. His jawline is harder and more sculpted, but his nose is still straight and perfect. In that photo, his eyes were so deep brown that they bordered on black. I thought it was just the lighting, but it wasn’t. He has the softest, dark velvet eyes. Two small scars stand out, one along his jawline, the other bisecting his right eyebrow. They weren’t there before, but they only enhance his hard, carved out allure.
Rugged would probably be closer to the correct term, but he’s not a lumberjack.
Stone, but he’s no statue.
He’s too alive, too vital, throwing too much heat for that. He smells good too. Like fresh cedar wood shavings. The scent immediately brings me back to my dad’s workshop. He used to turn wood when I was younger, before life sucked the joy and the desire for hobbies right out of him.
“Hi.” My voice is reed thin.
He could easily blame it on the nerves, but he takes one step closer. He jams his hands into the pockets of a worn leather jacket. It’s unzipped even though it’s cold out, revealing a black t-shirt below. His faded jeans and heavy black boots give the impression that he’s already been welcomed into his cousin’s biker club.
His eyes dart over my shoulder, roaming through the living room and taking a sharp turn to the kitchen as though he expects an ambush. He’s trained for it. Knowing his surroundings has meant the difference between getting jumped, shanked, or having other unspeakable violence done to him.
His gaze collides with mine and he immediately looks abashed. I know what he’s doing, and he knows that I know. Two hard lines appear between his brows, but then he gives me a sheepish smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look almost boyish.
“Sorry. It’s a habit. Although, your apartment building’s security isn’t very secure at all.”
“There are cameras and the building manager lives on site. I’ve never felt unsafe here.”
Only when I try to leave.
