4
Ever since the interview, I’ve been trying to keep busy. I’ve been reading and cooking and even running again, anything to keep my mind off it. I really want the position. It’s the perfect job for me. Every time I check my phone, and see that there’s no message or email, my heart sinks a little, despite the fact that I know these things take time.
There’s no use moping around waiting for a reply. I’ve even been checking other positions, but none are as perfect as this one. Today’s been a good day; a few hours spent at the library, flipping through magazines and checking out a few books, and grocery shopping for dinner tonight. I’m going all out and making Asian lettuce beef wraps (Mischa’s recipe) and fried rice and mango salad. It should be good. Too bad I’ll be the only one eating it.
I sigh at the thought as I walk into Orchard Heights, pushing a personal folding shopping cart, a gift from Daniel. It’s a Burberry knock-off. With my suede flat knee high boots, a Nine West handbag, and grungy poncho, I look like a mix between a socialite and a homeless woman. And the funny thing is, I don’t care.
My heart skips a beat when I spot Noah leaning against the wall by the elevator. The man is lookingfine. I really shouldn’t be looking, but there’s not much excitement in my life these days, so I’m going to ogle if I want to. He’s wearing slim fitting grey pants and a blue button shirt. A box of books sits by his feet. He’s on his cell and smiling, and I wonder if he’s talking to a woman. It embarrasses me to admit, but the thought makes me sour. Well, whoever she is, she’s a lucky woman.
I walk right past him and I’m impossible to miss as I press the elevator button. He glances up and smiles. “Hey, listen, Joe. I gotta go. Something just came up. Okay, bye.” And just like that, he ends his phone call and turns his attention to me.
I’m flattered.
“Hey, Abby,” he says. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” I reply with a friendly grin. “And you?”
The elevator doors ding open and he picks up his box of books. I hold the doors-open button for him. I stare at the strain of his shirt against his biceps as he struggles with the huge heavy box. That song,Time of my Life,from theDirty Dancingsoundtrack is playing softly in the background. He holds the box askew, and two huge books fall to the floor with a loud thump.
“Oh shit,” he curses.
“Here, I got them.” I bend down to retrieve the books. Daniel Brown’sTheDavinci CodeandAngel & Demons,illustrated. “Cool books. I loved those books.”
“Yeah, they’re classics. Thanks.”
The books are crazy heavy. “Here, I’ll put them in my bag.” I slip them on top of my groceries, careful to keep my loaf of bread on top.
“Thanks,” he says, all smiles. “I’m still moving my stuff in.”
“I can see that.”
The elevator doors ping open on our floor, and I follow him out to his loft. I enjoy the view as we walk down the hall. The man has a great behind.I’m such a dirty old woman.
When we finally get to his place, he blows out a long breath as he sets the box of books on the floor. He fiddles with the door a second. Unfortunately, we still use old fashioned keys here, in keeping with the whole vintage feel of the building. Or perhaps the management just doesn’t have the funds to upgrade.
I’m reaching for his books when he asks me if I’d like to come in. My brain processes the situation quickly. Yes, he is essentially a stranger, and he could be a deranged serial killer. But with that smile, I highly doubt it. I already feel like I’ve known him forever. “Sure, I’d love that,” I reply, perhaps a little too eagerly. What can I say? I’ve always been curious.
His place is very similar to mine; high coffered ceilings, dark posts and beams, lots of light, floor to ceiling windows, and a modern urban kitchen. There is a contemporary grey sectional and boxes everywhere. Honestly, the place feels cold, all whites and greys. My space is full of color and books and knick knacks I’ve collected over the years. But he’s still settling in, I tell myself.Give the boy a break.
I fish out his books out of my cart. “Where would you like these?”
“Anywhere. As you can see, the place is kind of a mess.”
“I see that.” I set the books on the wood floor, right next to a small sculpture of a bear. “Do you need help unpacking?” I’m not quite sure where those words just came from, but if I had to guess, I’d saypure boredom.
His whole face lights up at my offer. “Really? You’d be willing to help me out?”
I nod, wondering what I’ve just got myself into. “Oh yeah, I love that stuff. I’m kind of… between jobs at the moment.”
“Perfect,” he says. “I could use the help. I’ve been pretty busy lately.”
I nod awkwardly. “So… about you? What do you do?”
He smiles. “I’m a composer / songwriter.”
“Anything I’ve heard?”
He frowns. “Probably not. I write jingles mostly. My most popular one was the one for the Cooper’s shampoo commercial.”
