Damnit! Why won’t she respond?
Casting his memory back to the day she’d come to the BKI compound, he replayed their conversations in his head. Saw her smile in his mind’s eye. Recalled how her mouth had puckered into a perfect moue as she’d concentrated on the computer screen while her sparkly blue fingernails had clacked on the keyboard.
Aside from their teeny, tiny squabble over her not flirting with him because, while it'd been endearing when she’d been thirteen and trying out her feminine wiles, at twenty-nine it’d just made things awkward between them, he couldn’t think of a single exchange that should’ve had her ghosting him.
And sheisghosting me, isn’t she? Or maybe…
His blood froze when an alarming thought occurred.
Had she been hit by a cab while crossing the street? Had she fallen through a missing manhole cover and been trapped in the god-awful labyrinth of Chicago’s sewer system? Had she been swept into Lake Michigan by a rogue wave?
“For fuck’s sake, Hannah,” he grumbled while quickly typing yetanothertext.If you don’t text me back in 5 seconds, I’ll assume you’ve been kidnapped & I’ll send the CPD out looking for you.
He counted the seconds in his head.One. Two. Three. F—When he saw those three gloriously scrolling dots appear on his screen, a breath of relief gusted from him.
Of course, the instant her response appeared he was back to scowling.I’m fine. Just not feeling carnivorous. Thanks for checking in. Goodbye, Sam.
Goodbye, Sam?Goodbye, Sam?
Why did that sound so final?
1
728 West Addison Street, Apartment 2B
Six months later…
“Why do you look like someone peed in your fajitas tonight?”
When Cesar frowned at Hannah’s reflection in the vanity’s mirror, she fluttered her lashes and blew him a kiss.
“It was carnitas, not fajitas,” he corrected. There were lines of bronzer streaked down both sides of his nose and a thin line of highlighter swiped down the middle. When he made a face at her, the expression looked ridiculous.
Normally, she would’ve grinned and told him as much. But normally, when he was getting ready for a show at the KitKat Lounge, he was all sunny smiles, seated dance moves, and belting out whichever pop songs he planned to sing. Tonight, something was up with him. He was quiet. Contemplative. Almost…subdued.
Veryun-Cesar-like.
She kept her teasing to herself and instead asked, “What’s the difference again?” Then she waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind. That’s not the point. Whatever it was you ate with the grilled chicken and the corn tortillas, the look on your face says someone peed in it. But since you made it yourself, micturition is out. Surely.”
He rolled his eyes. “I rue the day I bought you that Word of the Day calendar.”
“Come on.” She pointed to his reflection. “Tell your best gal pal what’s got your mind tied in a knot. Maybe I can help you untangle it.”
As was her routine, she’d sprawled on her stomach across his bed to watch him transform himself from Cesar, a devastatingly handsome man, into Cesarine, the city’s most beautiful woman. It was like witnessing a caterpillar become a butterfly or seeing Cinderella go from coal-covered kitchen scamp to ethereal princess with the wave of a wand.
Or, in Cesar’s case, with the wave of a mascara spoolie, a generous swipe of concealer, and the deft application of a half-pound of dark, sparkly eyeshadow.
Still no less magical than a fairy godmother in Hannah’s estimation. And bonus, it was the easiest way to learn the latest makeup techniques since Cesar watched all the newest TikToks and YouTube videos and she watched Cesar.
Using a makeup sponge, he blended the bronzer and highlighter into his nose, taking the feature from average to snatched in ten seconds flat. Next he applied glue to an amazingly fluttery set of false eyelashes. But as he waved the lashes to make the glue tacky, he remained frustratingly mute.
“Wow.” She blinked. “It must be bad if even Roy Orbison isn’t enough to lift your spirits.”
The low, velvety voice of The Big O crooned from the speakers in the living room. Along with the old Hi-Fi system, Cesar had inherited a substantial record collection from his grandfather. He spun oldies-but-goodies pretty much nonstop.
“This morning”—his voice was low and pensive when he finally spoke—“Pete told me he loves me.”
She waited for him to get to the bad part, the part that was making his painted lips purse into a sour-looking moue. But he stopped there. The only sound to fill the room besides the music was theclackity-clackity-clackof the nearby train.
