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didn’t even notice when I cleared my plate. The food was great, I’m sure.
It drives me crazy that Nora knew I was here but didn’t come out to the table. I didn’t mean to hurt her, and I deserve the chance to explain myself. She had over an hour to at least walk by, wave, or smile politely.
When we reach the door to leave, I pull on Hardin’s sleeve. “I’ll meet you back at my place.”
Hardin doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t offer to stay with me. He just nods and walks away. I’m glad for it.
I sit down on the bench outside the restaurant and check the time on my phone. It’s ten minutes past nine, and I have no idea when Nora’s shift is over. I’ll wait outside until she’s off, I decide. Even if it’s two in the morning.
I look around the street and lean back against the cool brick. The fall air is calm and holds a slight chill. The sidewalks are nearly empty, which is not common for Brooklyn on a Friday night in September.
While I wait, I try to think about what to say to Nora. How will I begin the conversation?
• • •
Two hours later, when Nora emerges from the Lookout, I still haven’t decided. She walks right past me, her long hair bouncing down her back. When she stops at the corner of the street, she unbraids her hair and shakes her head. She’s stunning, even beneath the unforgiving streetlights.
I should make my presence known; I should call her name and face her instead of silently following her. But something inside stops me. Where is she going, anyway? Is she back at her apartment with Dakota?
I don’t know, but I have a feeling I’m about to find out.
Nora walks through the quiet blocks, turning down the smallest side streets. It worries me that she doesn’t notice she’s being followed. She hasn’t looked back once. She put earbuds in and seems to be content roaming Brooklyn at eleven at night without paying attention to her surroundings.
She crosses to Nostrand Avenue, and I assume she’s going to take the subway. Should I be following her? Why doesn’t this feel creepy, watching her and shadowing her like a psychopath? Either way, I find myself crossing the street and following her down the steps of the subway entrance.
I stay at least twenty feet behind her, and allow a group of people to come between us. Nora bobs her head to her music while she waits in line to scan her MetroCard.
The train car is nearly empty when I step inside, and if Nora even glances around, she’ll see me. I take a seat next to an elderly woman reading a newspaper and hope that it will block me from Nora’s view a little bit. The car is eerily quiet, and when I cough, I decide that I’m not that great a stalker.
Nora pulls her phone from her pocket and stares at the screen. She swipes and sighs and swipes again. Ten minutes later, she stands to get off, and I follow. We transfer to another train and forty-five minutes later are at Grand Central Terminal; I have no freaking clue where this woman is going, or why I’m still following her.
We board a Metro-North train, and another thirty minutes pass before we arrive at Scarsdale station. I have no idea where Scarsdale is, or why we’re here. When we get out of the station, Nora stops at a bench and unbuttons her work shirt. She’s wearing a black undershirt made from a meshlike material. Her bra is showing, and I try to not stare at her figure as she shoves her shirt into her bag and zips it back up.
Nora takes out her earbuds and pulls her phone out of her purse, and I hide behind a sign for an insurance company. “I’m here; I’ll meet the driver outside the station. How was his dinner? Did he eat at all?” she asks whoever is on the line.
A few seconds pass. “Well, I’ll help. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
She hangs up the phone and puts it in her pocket, then turns toward where I’m hiding. I duck down farther.
What was my plan here? Whose driver is picking her up?
