Hooked (2 page)

I cleared my throat before speaking.
“Yeah.
I’m starving. Just going to get a late dinner—
“ I
said, standing up quickly to hide my body from him. “You
know, I think I’ll have a tuna melt.
That good here?”

The acned boy nodded vehemently and got to work,
slicing a piece of bread and swinging cheese out from the back refrigerator. I
called to him, “Oh, and a cup of coffee!”

My heart had begun to decrease in intensity from the
previous day’s many jobs, constant questions,
constant
stream of excitement. I needed to be high-energy—a perfect dance instructor. I
sighed, pawing through my billfold. What I really needed, I knew, was to charge
more from each student. But I couldn’t afford to lose anyone. Part of the
reason people even came to me was because I was—well—the cheapest in Chicago.
But dammit, I was good.

“Do you have enough?”

My heart jumped. I raised my chin and looked to my
right, where the gruff voice had come from.
“Um.
Of
course I have enough. I’m just—
“ I
parsed through the
bills, most of them ones. “I’m just unorganized.”

The man laughed good-naturedly, not making me feel
strange or off-kilter. He was very attractive, with these stunning teeth—so
white beneath his near-smirk. His eyes were dark, enhanced by the shadows of
the coffee shop. He wore a black suit and a dark blue tie. He looked suave,
sharp. Why the hell was he talking to me?

“Here you go
,“
the coffee
shop worker squeaked at me. He looked toward the man. “Oh, yes. What was it you
were having again?”

“So, you help the lady
first, huh?” the man asked him slyly.

The teenaged boy swallowed, unsure of what to say.
His eyes searched around the room, hoping for an out. The man had deviated from
the script, and the teenaged boy was in the water now.
Drowning.

But the man waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. I
had a turkey
panini
. Take your time.” His teeth
flashed once more, and he began gathering a few ones—nearly ten, I counted—and
pushed them into the teenager’s tip jar.

The boy was flustered
at the dramatic tip.

I nodded at the teenaged boy, giving him an
encouraging look, as he passed
me my greasy tuna melt and
coffee
. He tapped at the iPad computer before him (there was always
something I missed, really, about hearing that ding
ding
ding
of the cash register), and he gave me my total.
I passed the bills off to him, leaving him a substantial tip in the jar as
well. The boy’s eyes were bright. He turned quickly toward the
panini
and started making the sandwich like it was the only
thing he had been meant to do his entire life.

“Good show,” I said to the man next to me, winking
at him. What had gotten into me? I so obviously wasn’t in a good state to flirt
with anyone. My shirt was sweat-filled; my yoga pants had a milk stain from my
morning coffee. I was a sweat-ball, a great big nobody in Wicker Park. I looked
outside and noted the beautiful people sauntering by the coffee shop, each with
unique dress, unique flair. I imagined this attractive man next to me exiting
the coffee shop and having the world at his feet. He could have whomever he
wanted.

I nodded at him, choosing to make my exit.

I walked toward the window, still wanting to feel
the essence of the city as I ate my sandwich. My stomach rumbled as I walked,
making the man beside me laugh, even after I had nodded and exited. I watched
him as he waited for his own
panini
. He searched
through the large stack of newspapers, from the Chicago Tribune to younger,
smaller papers. He shook his head, slowly drinking his coffee.

Suddenly, his eyes shot up and met with mine. He had
caught me staring. Hurriedly, I sent my eyes crashing down to my own sandwich.
I had taken so many bites of my pickle without thinking, noting the way my
mouth tasted then; laced with vinegar, horrific. I covered my mouth, horrified.

“Here you go, sir,” said the teenager at the
counter, handing the man his large sandwich. “I gave you an extra cookie, as
well.”

“Well, thank you, maestro,” the man said, nodding
his slick chin toward him. “You have a good Saturday night.”

Then the man stepped toward me. I could feel his
shadow as it emanated closer and closer toward my table. He paused, clearing
his throat. “You mind if I sit here?” he asked me, motioning toward the stool
to my right.

Covering my mouth, hoping to avoid revealing that
ridiculous pickle smell, I sputtered, “Of course you can!” feeling a bit
ridiculous. I caught my reflection once more in the window before me. I tossed
my still-curled, still luxurious hair this way, then that. I tried not to
linger. My feet were itching to leave.

But something else held
me back.

“So.
You look like you just came from exercising?” the man said to me, unwrapping
his
panini
. The smell wafted toward my nose. The
peppers and onions emitted such savory wonder.

“Oh, yeah,” I muttered, looking down at my yoga
clothes as if I were surprised. “I just. I got back from a run. Had to fuel
up,” I said, waving my free hand around my face. What was I saying? I knew, of
course, that oftentimes when I told guys I was a dancer, they became weird
about it. Sometimes, they thought it was really sexy; they wanted to learn all
of my moves. Other times, however, guys told me it wasn’t a real thing, to be a
dancer; that it wasn’t a real sport or a valid pastime. Plus, there was the
whole “I failed at it” thing that I never wanted to go into.

“It was a beautiful day for a run,” the man said to
me, his eyes bright. “I went, as well. You go around the Wicker Park, itself?”

I finished chewing slowly. “Oh, you mean the green
space actually called Wicker Park?” I asked him, laughing. “No. I run along the
lake.” I lied through my teeth. I considered him for a moment. “You’re not from
around here, are you?”

“Is it that obvious?” the man asked. He leaned
toward me, flashing his bright eyes. “By the way, I don’t want this to go
another minute before learning your name.”

My heart leaped in my chest. I raised my eyebrow,
trying to play it cool. “What makes you think you’ll need it?” I asked him.

The man shrugged. “I
like to make contacts.
New city; new home.”

“Where you from?”
I asked him, still playing with him. My tuna melt was on the wrapper before me;
it hadn’t been touched in several minutes.

“New York,” he answered
then. “I actually was born here, in Chicago. But, I moved when I was a kid. I’m
not used to it.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

“Ah. The Big Apple itself,” I said. I felt my throat
tighten; what was I going to say next? “I’m.
Um.
I’m
Molly,” I said, reaching my slender hand out to shake his firm, steady one.
“And you are?”

“Drew,” the man said, turning his head just slightly
to give me a full profile of him; his smooth nose, his supple lips. I longed to
kiss him in that moment. I couldn’t shake the feeling. “I’ve come to the city
to open a new bookstore. I feel like this neighborhood would be perfect for
one. A nice crowd, you know.”

“Have you opened a bookstore before?” I asked him. I
felt the sweat trickle down my back, knowing that this sweat was a different
formation—not from exercise. I was nervous around him; I felt stirrings inside
myself I hadn’t known still existed. And yet, I knew in my heart that I had to leave
soon. That I had to go home and rest. I had to align my checkbook, note
precisely how much money I had in the bank. Rent was nearly due on the dance
studio, and I could hardly afford it if I didn’t work everything out, perhaps
add an extra class. (Truly, I was a few months behind. But the owner had been
lenient with me.) All the thoughts swirled in my mind, making me feel
half-crazy. I didn’t have time to speak to some dumb bookshop owner at a coffee
shop! I nearly burst from my seat.

But then I focused, calming myself with easy
breathing. Drew was talking about how he owned several bookstores in New York.
He was hoping to make a fresh start in the middle of the country—where his
roots began. I gave him a small smile, hoping it didn’t appear too eager or
sensual. “You’ve picked a perfect neighborhood to start, Drew,” I said. I
pushed my stool back, hearing it screech across the bottom of the floor. “You
know. I have to get going,” I said, still smiling that ridiculous smile.

Drew pushed his stool back as well, in chorus with
mine. He looked out the window, and we both noted it was getting dark. People
had begun to huddle in their coats from the evening temperature. It was only
September, but the Chicago winter crept up fast and fierce.

“Let me walk you home,
Molly,” Drew said then, his eyes like fire lighting into me.

I wanted to say no. My heart nearly stopped beating
in my chest. I pictured my Netflix queue, my nice bedspread. I imagined my
night lined up before me; chocolate chip cookies and as much television as I
could muster until I fell asleep.

Okay, okay. It didn’t seem like such an appealing
life, after all. “Okay,” I said, bobbing my head back and forth with
hesitation. “I live just around the corner, anyway.” I could be free of him in
just an instant if he was a creep. And I could run pretty fast.
Dancer legs.

He stood before me, revealing his full height once
more. I felt a heat about him, something I couldn’t shake. I touched my
eyebrows, my cheek. “Shall we?”

We rushed into the city before us, turning right
toward my apartment. As Drew jaunted up beside me, his long legs pulsing,
revealing his shining, stylish black shoes, I decided I liked the way it felt,
walking side-by-side with one of the most attractive men I had ever seen in the
city. I watched as several women along the route back to my apartment eyed us,
eyed him—and struggled making the connection between this stunning man and this
sloppy blonde in yoga pants. I felt like grinning from ear to ear.

“So.
How
are you liking
the city, after so much time away?”
I asked him after a few moments of silence between us, the horns honking out in
the street.

“You know. I like it. It’s a good deal different
than
New York. But perhaps that’s just because I don’t
really know anyone yet. I have a few friends here; I’ve gone to a few of their
parties, of course.
But.”
He paused before speaking
once more.

I felt tension in my shoulders, nervousness. Was I
never going to see this guy again? I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t. My schedule
loomed over my head like a shadow. I needed to have another class! I needed to
make rent—for both the dance studio and my goddamned apartment! But I kept my
focus.

“But.
It’s been difficult. You know. I was tired of all the New York women, the
drama. The grandeur,” he spewed forth, speaking with his hands. “But then, I
came here, and I haven’t met a single hot, beautiful, interesting girl.” He
stopped short at the corner, turning his eyes toward me. I felt them burn.
“Until you,” he said. He said it so directly, so confidently. I
felt like my stomach was churning with the small bites of tuna I
had nearly been too nervous to eat
. “Not that meeting beautiful women
was my necessary purpose for coming here—
“ he
trailed
off.

I needed to say something. I couldn’t just let this
moment pass me
by
. I had missed so many big moments in
my life; not this one! Not this one!
“I. Um.
I don’t
meet anyone like you,” I stammered. “I mean. Not usually at that coffee shop,”
I joked then, rebounding.

Drew laughed at that. “I just consider it a privilege
to even walk you home. It’s been a while. I feel like a kid again. Although, I
think I’m better looking than that one back there.” He gestured behind him back
toward the coffee shop. The poor sap with the acne and the tuna melt.

“You don’t know,” I said, teasingly. “And how could
I know about you when you were a kid? You could have had acne all down your
face, chubby cheeks—a stub nose? I don’t know what surgeries you’ve been
under
. I don’t even know if Drew is your real name.

“Ah. I see the game
you’re playing,” Drew spoke, making me blush. I thought about asking to see his
ID, but I didn’t want to push the game too far. It had been so long since I had
played the game, after all. I needed to re-boot.

We had arrived at the front door of my apartment. I
gazed up at my window, its small balcony hovering over our heads. “This is me,”
I said, gesturing.

Drew looked at my great apartment building, its red
brick looking sad in the wreckage of this new century. (I had learned that the
building had been built in the late 1800s, just like the dance studio building.
I tried to imagine it, that life. I tried to imagine that time, when these
beautiful buildings were being built, left and right. But I couldn’t.)

“Rather beautiful,”
Drew said. But he had turned back toward me.