Page 3 of All The Ways to Miss You

Aggie spots the same and pumps her arms with a victorious whoop. She seeks my hand for a high five, but she misses and smacks my face instead. Wincing at the pain, I rub my burning cheek. Clumsiness ignites her raucous laughter, but nervousness releases mine. Like bumbling idiots, we weave beneath Lincoln Park’s canopy of green trees.

Outside Aggie’s condo building in the cool late-summer night air, I thank her for cheering me up. I’m relieved and exhilarated by our escape.

“I thought I was the one who needed cheering,” she says.

“You know your down-in-the-dumps is equivalent to my happy.”

“Aww, my poor Princess of Darkness. Try to put on a happy face.” She pats my arm. “You sure you don’t want to stay?”

“Nah, running will help burn off the alcohol.”

“Or make you throw up.” She pretends to barf.

“You’re such a child.” I wave her off with an affectionate grin. When she vanishes into her building, I jog into the darkness of the tree-lined street.

My apartment sits a mile south near the city center. It’s a restored six-story brick walk-up in River North. When I reach the top floor out of breath, I stop at the landing and stare at my apartment door. It’s ajar.

My entire body on alert, I glance around to confirm I’m alone. I didn’t leave the door open. In fact, I remember locking it before I left. At least, I think I did. I rub my head. With champagne bubbles floating through my system, my recollection’s blurry.

Holding my breath, I step forward with caution. Standing two feet away from the door, I press one finger to the wood and ease it wider. It squeaks, and I freeze at the sound, half-expecting someone to jump me. When nothing happens, I continue my visual inspection of the living room.

The room is tidy. Quiet. Nothing seems out of place. My purse sits untouched on the coffee table. I exhale and inch a step closer.

“Hello?” My voice shakes. I’m poised to run back down the stairs, if need be. When there’s no response, I become bold and say it louder. “Hello?”

There’s only silence.

I step over the threshold, and the floorboards creak beneath my weight. My gaze swings from the kitchen to the living area and down the hall to my darkened bedroom. On tiptoe, I step farther inside.

A loud clanking noise makes me startle. My shoulder hits the wall before I stumble backward through the open front door and into the hall with a scream lodged in my tight throat.

“Back here!” someone yells.

I place my hand over my hammering heart when I recognize the husky voice, and immediately want to kill its owner. I roll my eyes and exhale, willing the adrenaline to stop shooting through my system. Regaining my composure, I follow the clanking noise.

In my bathroom, a man kneels on the floor, inspecting a gigantic hole of exposed pipes with the roaming beam of a flashlight. I fold my arms and lean into the door frame.

When I left to meet Aggie, everything here was functioning. Annoyed, I take in the details.

My expensive towels soak up a deluge of water pooled on the tile floor. Part of what used to be my bathroom wall now forms a large pile of powdery, crumbled drywall. And then there’s the issue of ass crack—aimed at my face. It is toned and tight, but still, it belongs to my landlord, Evan Wade.

“Pipes burst, leaking a damn waterfall into 5A,” he mutters, not bothering to glance in my direction.

I purse my lips. “Did you have to use my good towels?”

“I thought about using your sexy lingerie.” He eyes the laundry basket of delicates now sitting on top of the sink. “But the fancy towels seemed like a better option.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” I sidestep him, grab the basket, and carry it to my bedroom to hide it in my closet. If he’d examined it closer, which he probably did, he would have found an embarrassing quantity of granny panties and more sports bras than a Lululemon.

“How long before it’s fixed?” How long before I can get rid of you?

“A week,” he says, his voice muffled.

“What?” I race back to be met by his snarky grin. It brackets the dimples embedded in his perpetual five o’clock shadow. His brown eyes gleam with amused delight. I glare at him.

“Just kidding,” he says. “And you forgot this one.”

When Evan tosses me a ball of fabric, I catch it and glance at it. A smiling kitten stares back from the crotch of a pair of panties. Pussy panties. My cheek temperature flickers between sweaty hot and icy cold.