“As you should be. Now, why don’t you go and join your friend in the marketing department. We’re going to be doing a big social media push next week and I’m sure they can use the extra help.”
“Sounds great,” I agree. “Again, it was very nice meeting you, Mira.”
“You as well.”
With that I’m off, making my way toward the center of the office as I continue to think of the fabric square that’s tucked away in the one clean pocket inside my bag. I’m not going to obsess over it, per se; I’m just going to casually treasure it for all eternity.
Hours later Marco, Holly and I are on our way to the apartment after our first full day at the internship. Marco and Holly are in a shop picking up snacks and I’ve decided to wait outside. Taking out my phone, I’m about to open my photo gallery when I suddenly get a text message. When I see who it’s from, my stomach somersaults and my heart takes off running.
It’s from Greg.
I almost drop the phone. My hands are shaking. I know I shouldn’t be having this strong of a reaction. It can’t be good for me, but I still crave it. It’s just a text message. It could be nothing. It could be everything.
I unlock the screen and read what he sent in an instant. Then read it again, slowly, a second time:
I got dinner from 5411 Empanadas yesterday and it made me think of your birthday when we hunted it down at two in the morning. That was a great night. Hope you’re doing good.
I read it again. And then again. I’m smiling, but I wish I weren’t.
5411 Empanadas was my favorite food truck in Chicago. Whenever I had a bad day or a terrible shift, that was our spot. I don’t know what it was, but my first bite would set off a chain reaction in my psyche, and my mood would immediately shift. Just thinking about it now sends a familiar happy wave through me. I try to tell myself that it’s only the memories of empanadas that has me giddy, but I know it isn’t true.
It’s Greg’s text. His words. More importantly, it’s the implication of his words. The underlying sentiment that he’s thinking of me. He remembers us. He hasn’t forgotten me, either.
My fingers are poised to fire a response when my eyeline flicks up for the briefest second. And that’s all it takes for my mind to go blank as I immediately look up again to see Matt heading down the sidewalk in my direction.
With a panicked breath in, I pull my phone into my chest and turn on the spot. I pivot toward the small tree beside me and take refuge in its shade, praying to all that is holy that Matt didn’t notice me. I don’t look over my shoulder to see how close he is. I play upright possum. He can’t be far off now, and I refuse to move until I’m safe. Leaning closer to the tree, essentially pinning myself to the side of the trunk, I do my best to appear like a faceless bystander who’s minding my own business. Nothing to see here.
Soon enough, I’m watching the back of Matt’s form as he passes on the sidewalk, and I turn again, this time in the opposite direction. His step never falters as he moves past me, so I’m almost positive I’m in the clear. Slowly and carefully, I peek over my shoulder and find that he’s a decent distance away. I can breathe easy. He’s standing at the corner waiting for the light to change and it feels so strange to see him in his natural habitat. His profile is distinct but relaxed, and he has surprisingly good posture. It’s shocking how normal he looks when he isn’t snarling at me.
A woman steps up beside him and accidentally drops one of the bags she’s carrying in the process. Matt immediately picks it up, returning it to her and going so far as to give her a fairly friendly smile. The woman says something to him, and he answers her with another grin before once again looking across the street. The woman’s eyes covertly drift over him after he turns away, and I wonder if I just witnessed a spark starting to bloom.
If I had to guess, I’d say the woman is in her late thirties. She seems Italian in that naturally sophisticated kind of way. There’s nothing to stop Matt from continuing the conversation and asking for her number. But watching the woman watch Matt inadvertently leads to me watching him, too. He’s attractive—there’s no arguing that. I may be biased but I’m not blind. He’s tall and fit and when he isn’t actively grimacing, his facial features are well defined and inviting. Anyone who caught sight of him on a blind date would be delighted.
And, of course, there’s his scruff. I won’t deny it—I like the scruff. It’s not that I have a full-fledged beard kink or anything; I’m simply a lady who enjoys many a Viking show.
I used to beg Greg to grow even a hint of a beard, but he said it irritated his skin. He shaved almost every morning without fail. Thinking of Greg reminds me of his text. My eyes dart to my phone and the screen is locked again. I’m about to type in my passcode when Marco’s voice sends my gaze tilting up.
“Hey, Violet, is there a reason you’re about to scale that tree like an adorable little koala?”
I look next to me and see that I’m still all but wrapped around the trunk of the midsize tree, and I’m not quite sure how to explain it away.
“I was just trying to get out of the sun,” I offer with as much conviction as possible. “I forgot to apply sunscreen this morning and you can never be too careful.”
“Right,” he says, drawing the word out. “Well, seeing as it’s almost 6:00 p.m., I think you’ll make the one block walk home without bursting into flames. So how about you scurry on out of there and maybe tomorrow we’ll find you a nice straw-brimmed hat for you to wear instead of an actual tree.”
I step out of the dirt and onto the sidewalk. “Sounds sensible.”
I know I could have told Marco that Matt was the root of my woodsy inclinations, but he would have had way too much fun with that fact. He would have made it a thing, and that’s the opposite of what I need to happen. So instead, I say nothing, keeping my phone clutched in my hand as dueling thoughts run riot in my mind.
Greg texted. Matt was sure he would. If I tell him, he’s going to be unbearable. Even more so than usual. And for some twisted reason, a small but decidedly devious smile crosses my face as I imagine our impending battle.
5
“I don’t know why but sketching just feels better with wine.”
Marco takes another sip of prosecco as we relax farther into two outdoor loungers on the terrace. Our sketchbooks are pushed up against our bent knees, our feet are bare and the air is toasty. I still can’t fathom that this is real life.
“I concur,” I tell him, having just savored another sip as well. “And, of course, the ambiance doesn’t hurt.”
