“She says his name, and it’s his favorite sound in the world . . .” He trails off, and I hear a muffled sound.
“Luke?” I ask.
“Fuck.” I’ve never heard him sound so frustrated. “Just a minute, Milly, someone’s at the door.”
There’s silence for a moment, then I hear the snick of a lock turning. A faint creak of a hinge as a door opens.
“Hi, Luke.”
It’s a woman’s voice.
NINETEEN
LUKE
I tried really hard to ignore the knocking on my door, which came at the worst possible time. At first, I assumed it was Austin, since he’s the only person I know who would drop by without texting. He’s also the only person I know who lives in the building and wouldn’t need to be buzzed through the front door. So I ignored the knocking for as long as I could, hoping he’d give up and go away.
But the knocking didn’t stop, and I started to worry something was really wrong. Maybe one of the neighbors needed help, or the building was on fire and the alarm was broken. So I finally threw a pair of sweatpants over my boxers and went to the door. I vowed that if I’d been interrupted for anything less than a fire, someone’s head was going to roll.
But when I opened the door, it wasn’t Austin, and there was no fire. Instead, it was Ethan, standing next to my uptight neighbor Janine Price. Ethan looked drunk, and Janine looked pissed.
And now I’m standing in my doorway, blinking at them like an idiot.
A very frustrated idiot.
“Hi, Luke,” Janine says. “Sorry to wake you up. Your friend was knocking on my door, looking for you.”
I guess I’m lucky she assumed it took me so long to open the door because I was asleep and not because I was having phone sex. I surreptitiously adjust my sweatpants and hope she won’t notice my erection. Janine’s only a few years older than me, but she’s definitely the prim and proper type.
“Sorry about that, Janine,” I say quickly. “Come on in, Ethan.” I guess the building isn’t as secure as I thought; he must have followed someone through the front door.
I pull him through the door and close it behind me, then lead him to a chair at the kitchen table. His eyes are a little glassy and there’s beer on his breath, but he’s still steady on his feet. Maybe he’s only half drunk.
I go to the sink to pour Ethan some water and realize I’m still clutching my phone. I glance at the screen and curse. Melissa hung up.
After I plunk a glass of water in front of Ethan, I hit the button to call Melissa back, but it goes straight to voicemail.
“Fuck,” I mutter. With Ethan here, I wouldn’t have been able to pick up where I left off with Melissa, but at the very least, she deserves an explanation.
“Did I interrupt something?” Ethan asks. He’s pretty perceptive for someone who’s half drunk.
“Kind of, yeah,” I admit, as I tap out a text to Melissa.
Me: Sorry Milly, a friend showed up. I’ll call later.
“Sorry about the neighbor,” Ethan says. “I thought that was your door.” He’s clearly picked up on my irritation, and I feel a prickle of guilt.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, slipping my phone into my pocket.
Ethan takes a deep drink of water, then sets down the glass and stands. “I should go.”
For the first time, I really take in his appearance, and guilt stabs me right in the gut. This man is a caricature of the Ethan Atwell I knew when we were residents in Montreal. His skin is pasty, he’s sporting a couple days’ worth of stubble, and there’s a smear of something brown on the front of his T-shirt.
The worst is the defeated expression in his eyes. He’s too proud to put it in words, but his appearance here tonight is a cry for help.
“Stay,” I say quickly. “Have you had dinner? I could microwave something.”
To my relief, he sits back down. “I ate,” he says. “It was wing night at Fionn McBride’s.”
