Jamie stopped by a half hour ago with pho in hand for Bea and me, a cab waiting to take us home. I declined, lying by saying I was going to get a bite at the pub next door and would catch my own cab home. Because Jamie and Bea need it—time alone at the apartment, time to be happy in a way that I don’t understand because I’ve never known it but that I’m happy for them to have, nonetheless.
I told the same lie to Toni and Sula, a little disconcerted by how readily I’ve deceived people since I came home, knowing it’s something I’ll have to sit with at some point and face. The reasons I tell my little white lies, the choices I make to stay separate, the roots I refuse to let sink deep.
But not tonight. Tonight, my belly full of the quiche and doughnuts I snacked on all day, my face buried in the luscious perfume of flowers, I’m letting myself bask in a sliver of joy.
That is, until I see someone leaning against the streetlamp a block away, hands in his pockets.
He tips his head back, scrapes a hand through his hair, exposing the line of his throat, a thick Adam’s apple kissed by the sunset’s glow.
I stare as a bolt of awareness races down my spine. There’s something so familiar about him. The way he scrubs at his scalp, then lets his hand fall. The way he lifts his wrist, examines his watch, and slides his thumb across its surface.
That’s what I recognize first. His hands.
Hands that pushed me on a swing when I was a scrawny girl who wanted to fly so high I could kick the clouds. Hands that dragged Puck, the family cat, out from under his front porch’s crawl space where he’d hidden for shelter from a sudden, violent storm. Hands that scooped me out of a closet last night.
Christopher.
His eyes meet mine. “Katerina.”
Reflexively, I hug the flowers tighter to my chest. The card pokes my skin and my stomach drops as I remember the name written on it.
Katerina.
No. It couldn’t be him. He’d never.
Would he?
I shift the bouquet in my arms and lift my chin, forcing myself to meet his eyes. Two glowing embers in the dying light, fringed with thick black lashes. Dark half-moon shadows beneath them. He looks exhausted.
Not that I care, of course.
“Christopher,” I finally manage to say. “What’re you doing here?”
He pushes off the streetlamp post and strolls my way, so intensely . . . there. Solid and sure, unmoved by the wind tugging his wool coat, whipping back his hair. Sunset gilds his profile and, when he faces me fully, lights up his amber eyes as it spills, burnished bronze down his body.
My breath is doing funny things, turning short and tight in my chest. I feel the danger, the draw of leaning too close to a roaring fire after a long, frigid day.
He’s so near now, I catch a wisp of his spicy smoke scent on the wind, see his chest rise and fall.
Snapping me from my reverie, he says dryly, “Apparently you’re ‘staying at the pub for dinner.’?”
I arch an eyebrow. “Are you following me?”
He arches an eyebrow back. “I asked relevant parties where I could find you after work. That was the answer I was given.”
“You didn’t ask me.”
“I don’t have your number, Kate. You never gave it to me.”
My stomach knots. “You never asked.”
His eyes hold mine as he says quietly, “Fair point.”
Suddenly, I am desperate to go.
I don’t want to look at him glowing in the sunset like he was made for light to love every angle of his face, every contour and powerful line of his body. And I really don’t want to think about why he’s here, the ways I might have humiliated myself in front of him last night when I was drunk as a skunk and half-awake. I want to move on. I want to walk past him and just keep walking.
“Well,” I say, falsely bright, “I’ll just be on my way.”
I start past him, when his hand darts out and clasps my elbow, bringing me to a stop.
I try to wrench my arm away, but his grip tightens, strong, yet still gentle, like when we crashed into each other that first night I was home.
“What do you want, Christopher?” I say between clenched teeth. I’m a raw live wire surging dangerously, my skin hot, agitated, too tight for my body.
His hand slides down my arm until it clutches my bare wrist. Despite the chilly weather, his palm is warm and dry, his fingertips rough as they graze my skin. His thumb drifts along my pulse where it flies as fast as I want to move down this sidewalk.
He takes a step closer, his hip brushing mine. Then he brings a hand to my flowers, to the wide-open rose slipping from the bouquet, its petals bruised by the wind. Gently, he slides the stem back, secure once more.
He meets my eyes again. “I need to talk to you.”
“So talk.”
“Let me walk you home. We can talk there.”
“Walk yourself home and go to bed. You look tired as shit.”
“Why, thank you, Katerina, I am. And I will. But you first. You shouldn’t be out alone, especially when it’s nearly dark.”
“This again.” I sigh, shifting the bouquet in my arms.
After a beat, he says, “I’ll compromise. Let’s walk and talk.”
I swallow nervously. “Is this about last night?”
“In part, yes.”
My cheeks heat. “I don’t want to talk about last night.”
“Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t. Just let me walk you home. I’ll keep it brief, then leave you alone, I promise.”
I tug my hand away and take a step back. “I’ll pass.”
“Goddammit, you’re stubborn.”
“Goddammit, you’re bossy!”
Christopher holds my eyes and steps closer. His face softens. A sparkle settles in his eyes. “Katydid.” That ridiculous childhood nickname. My stomach does not do a somersault. “Let me walk you home.”
I roll my eyes. “Is this you trying to charm me? Make me swoon? Whatever it is, stop. It’s not working.”
“And yet you’re clutching the flowers I sent like they’re your favorite camera.”
I peer down at the flowers, my stomach souring. “You sent these?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.
His mouth lifts at the corner. “Yes.”
“An unconscionably expensive, gorgeous gift? Trying to buy your way out of something?” I give him a wide-eyed, exasperated look. “Of course you did. It’s got you written all over it.”
“So you do think they’re gorgeous?”
“They’re obscene. I can’t stand them.”
His smile widens, those warm amber eyes heating as they dance over my face. “I don’t think so, Katerina. You love flowers. You always have.”
A sharp, searing pain slides down my sternum. It’s been so long since I let myself expect kindness from Christopher. I’m scared to trust it, bewildered by his sudden change in behavior. “Why are you doing this? Why are you sending me flowers and a card with some cryptic line on the back and enough pastries to feed the whole damn store?”
His eyes widen. He blinks at me like he’s stunned I’m not just gobbling up this suave and debonair act. “I thought . . . the flowers would make your day a little better. And the pastries, I figured you’d share, that everyone working at the store had been drinking a good bit last night and could use some hangover food.”
My heart’s sprinting in my chest. Why would he be nice? Why this sudden change? I want to reach out with both hands and take his olive branch, just as much as I want to protect myself and snap it clean in two. “So you were just being . . . nice?”
He throws out his arms in a gesture of helplessness. “Yes, though apparently little good that’s doing me!”
Ah, there’s the truth. Little good it’s doing him. My heart sinks. “This nice-guy act is about you, then. I see. Given that”—I shove the flowers at him—“leave me out of it.”
Two steps past him, and I can’t do it. I backtrack and yank the flowers out of his arms. “Never mind, I’m taking these.”
“Kate,” he calls as I start to power walk down the sidewalk. “Wait!”
“No!” I yell over my shoulder. I’m walking as fast as I can, but even my long legs are no match for his. “Go away, Christopher.”
“I can’t let you walk home alone, Kate,” he says, slapping the crosswalk button for pedestrians. He waits, but I cross the street, a car whizzing between us.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” I yell.