The sound of the terra-cotta hitting the wood, the sound of a clump of dirt scattering in its wake, the sound of the waxy leaves swishing in the trembling aftermath of their fall—all of it, Nora thought, sounded like the actual loudest noise that had ever been released in the entire history of the known universe.
She squeezed her eyes shut tight. She tried to make herself completely still, the way he had been. If she pulled it off, maybe the man on the balcony would think a rogue, third-floor-exclusive wind had knocked over the pot. Or some kind of critter? Yes, that made sense. A raccoon, or a particularly forceful sq—
“Hello?”
His voice was deep, but he spoke the word quietly, cautiously, and Nora supposed she could ignore it, keep on with the whole sculpture-posture idea until he went back inside. Later (withbra), she could go down and introduce herself, express her genuine condolences, and keep secret her nascent, selfish sense of hope that Donny may have done right by them after all.
It felt a little mean to ignore him, though, after she’d been spying and all, and also after she’d spent the past half hour being unjustifiably angry in the general direction of his recently deceased possible relative. A quick hello, then. An apology for disturbing him. No questions about his feelings regarding classic wall coverings.
She stepped back toward the railing, at the last second remembering to cross her arms over her chest.
This time, when she peeked over the edge, he was looking up at her.
He was tall; she could tell even from high above, and that was down to how well she knew this building, how every person in it looked in relation to its various structures—its railings, its overhangs, its doorways. Standing upright, his shoulders still looked broad, but overall, he seemed leaner to her outside of that bent-over posture she’d first seen him in. Maybe it was something about the clothes he wore—too dark to see him well, but they seemed to fit him loosely, pajama-like, and she liked that, thinking that they might both be out on their balconies, still in their sleepwear.
But it was what she could see of his face—bathed in the warm, golden light from the apartment—that made her breath catch, that made time stop. He was clean-shaven, his jaw square, his brow lowered in an expression to match the question that had been in his voice. Those sharp outlines might have been attractive all on their own, but they were improved—they were made stunning, really—by the soft curves that complemented them. Thick, wavy hair, messy in a way that made Nora wonder if there was perhaps an extremely flattering first-floor-exclusive wind. Full lips, slightly parted. She could only assume about his eyes, because they were hidden from her by the glare off his dark-rimmed glasses.
She swallowed.
“Hey,” she finally whispered back to him.
For a few seconds, he didn’t move at all, and she thought he seemed so good at that, staying still. Like, professionally good at it.Maybe he’s a mime, said the extremely stunned part of her brain.No, a castle guard, she amended. Still stunned, obviously, given the absolute dearth of castles in, you know, Illinois.
But then he lifted his right hand. Slowly, he raised it to the center of his chest, his broad palm rubbing once across his sternum, toward his heart.
“You . . . ,” he said, his hand resting there, right over his heart, and Nora had the wild urge to count the beats of her own.One-two,one-two.
“Startled me,” he finished, though nothing about his tone, or his still-quiet voice, suggested that he’d been startled at all. He shifted, finally letting his hand fall back to his side. There was still that glare shielding his eyes, but she could feel his gaze on her all the same.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, inching closer to the railing, resting her still-crossed arms against it. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, I’m—” he began, and then paused. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I’m sorry if I woke you, coming out here.”
“It’s okay,” she said, nodding her head toward the building. It felt like they were in a conspiracy of two out here, whispering in the dark. “You won’t wake anyone.”
Three of the six units in this apartment were occupied by people with hearing that was . . . not sharp, to put it mildly. And Benny, in the apartment below hers, waxed poetic about his white noise machine at the barest provocation, so he certainly wouldn’t hear them.
“And I’m always up at this time,” she added, then promptly pressed her lips together. Why had she told him that? It was asecret.
He cocked his head to the side, and it was like everything expressive about his face tipped with it—one eyebrow raised, one side of his mouth quirked. Something about it—something about this expression of genuine interest, of curiosity—hit Nora in such a vulnerable, neglected place.
It had felt like such a long time—months and months, really—since she’d felt interesting. Since she’d met anyone new.
Her cheeks warmed with pleasure.
“You are?” he said.
“Yeah.” She meant to leave it at that, especially because it’d come out decidedly more . . . breathy than she’d intended. But before she could stop herself, she added, “It’s the golden hour.”
Nora!her brain shouted (not breathily).What! Are! You! Saying!
She had a fleeting hope he might not have heard her. Like, over the sound of his first-floor-exclusive hair breeze.
“Golden hour?”
Okay, well. He’d heard her.
She cleared her throat. She would answer this, briefly, not weirdly (or breathily). Then she would somehow find a way to bring up Donny, offer the condolences that she was sure were necessary.
