As I approach the building, a jaunty older man, who introduces himself as Hector and is obviously expecting me, greets me by name and ushers me into the elevator. Thank goodness, too, because the apartment is on the sixth floor.
“How long will you be staying with us, Ms. Beckham?” His smile shines bright. He keeps his eyes locked on mine even when I discover my shirt is askew from schlepping my luggage four blocks. I like him.
“Just a week. Maybe less.” One can hope.
He carries my duffel down the hall of the sixth floor while I follow like a timid puppy being brought home for the first time. It hits me, suddenly, that I’m intruding on Cam’s personal space. My heart lodges in my throat. Shit. This was a terrible idea.
“Here we are, Ms. Beckham. Number 6206,” Hector announces, just as Ezra opens the door.
6206?Oh my?—
“Hi,” I squeak, bewildered. No wonder Cam was all squirrelly about my room number at the resort.
“I’ve got it.” Ezra takes my bag.
I shuffle into the narrow entryway behind him, shouting “Thanks, Hector!” over my shoulder.
“See you around, honey.” He salutes, then turns on his heel and strides back toward the elevator.
I kick off my shoes and add them to the basket in front of what I presume is a coat closet. To the left is a narrow, updatedkitchen. Directly in front of me is a large wooden desk in a beautiful chestnut color. A Mac desktop rests on top, and on the wall above are two exquisite photographs.
“Are these?—”
“Yup,” he responds. “He took them in Greece last year.”
30
Josefine
I felt wildlyuncomfortable sleeping in Cam’s bed last night, but Ezra refused to let me crash on the sofa. Snuggled between clean sheets, I laid awake most of the night, heart aching no matter how many breathing techniques I tried. Laser focusing in on every inhale and exhale to calm my pulse and my mind only led to more thoughts ofhim.
Cam on the precipice of a panic attack; me soothing his tense body from behind. When I was sure he was calm, whispering “I dare you to fuck me” in his ear.
But today is a new day, and I’m determined to situate my head straight. No more fawning over alluring men, with their forearm porn and tortoise-shell glasses. I am a strong, independent woman with one goal: finish writing a goddamn book.
Ezra was kind enough to make breakfast, and I offered to clear the dishes.
Like a boxer battling an opponent, I fight the jet lag by powering through. I know if I stay within the confines of the apartment—especially anywhere near Cam’s cloud-like mattress—none of my tasks will get accomplished.
I could walk to one of my regular coffee shops, but why not switch things up a little? I google cafés nearby and head to one with great reviews.
The baristas at the Black Hole café are the nerdy-on-purpose kind, and a sign on the exposed brick wall over the bar readsI licked it, so it’s mine. Wallpaper made to look like the pages of books covers the remaining walls. All the drinks are named after fictional characters, so although I typically drink my coffee black, I treat myself to a Mr. Darcy—a half-caf soy latte with whipped cream.
I connect to the café’s Wi-Fi. (Password:ilikebigbooksandicannotlie)
When I fish for my blue-light blocking glasses, two stickers fall from my laptop case. Cam bought them at the hotel’s gift shop after he noticed the collection covering my MacBook Air the day we worked side by side on my balcony. Just like I wanted to ask about each of his tattoos, he questioned my stickers.
I bought theReading is my foreplaysticker for myself.
Millie gifted me theAmbitchoussticker when I told her I was finally writing a book.
Working hard or hardly workingcame from Tyler. I need to take that one off; I thought it was funny at the time.
A cartoon pigeon from Poland reminds me of the time Millie got shit on after we visited Auschwitz-Birkenau during my senior year of high school. (There’s a dark metaphor somewhere in there.)
Remember your whyis also from my cousin.
There’s a sticker made to look like a library card, with the face of Matildain the little rectangle window.
