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Chance of being bitten by a shark: one in four million.
Chance of being struck by lightning: one in five-hundred thousand.
Based on recent history: The chance of Juni and I thinking the same thing at the same time is incalculable.
So maybe it’s not by chance at all that she texted. Maybe the universe is playing her cards. As my dad would say about opportunity, “Open the door.” I text: Apartment 17 B.
Who am I to tempt fate?
There’s no need to stress. The apartment is still spotless from the cleaning crew that came yesterday. My clothes are comfortable. We’re hanging out, not going to the ballet. I pour another drink and then make myself at home on the couch to wait.
The knock on the door isn’t forceful but soft as if she’s suddenly become shy. Not wanting a spoiler, I don’t peek through the peephole. I just swing that door wide open.
But I wasn’t prepared . . . I never am for her, it seems.
She doesn’t have to try to be utterly breathtaking—she just is whether her hair is up or down, her clothes fitted or baggy, dressed up or casual. Those things are obvious. It’s her smile and her hazel eyes that shine brighter than the stars on a clear night that have her stealing my breath and staring at her face. And everyone else she comes in contact with.
She just doesn’t seem to notice or doesn’t care that all eyes land on her. I couldn’t help the chuckle the first day I saw the poor coffee shop schmuck who thought he had a chance with her. He probably didn’t even have chest hair yet. But it made complete sense. She’s different from every other woman. She was made to stand out.
The green of her eyes is brighter tonight. The other time I’ve seen that color take the lead was when she was laughing in the ice cream parlor and then inside the office when she brought me coffee.
The brown is showier, at least for me. Anger turns the golden centers to fire, and she struggles to hide the emotion, like when I called her a stalker or when Mary called me by my first name.
Juni may not be my girlfriend, but she has a jealous streak.
Dressed in jeans and an NYU sweatshirt, she says, “We need to talk.”
I open the door all the way and step aside because Juni’s a sight for sore eyes despite that ominous opening line. She has a flair for the dramatic—as if everything at that moment is the most important thing—so I’m not stressing yet.
There’s no rushing in. She takes her time entering the apartment with wide eyes, studying everything she passes from the artwork to photographs, the furniture and the layout. Again, it makes me realize I have no idea where she lives.
What’s her view like? Which floor does she live on? Does she prefer taking the stairs or the elevator? And when I really get going down this rabbit hole, I realize I don’t know anything about her living situation, not even if she lives alone.
“Do you live with somebody else? Do you have roommates or live with family?” I shut the door but remain in the entry.
The question seems to take her by surprise, her gaze cutting through the distance to reach me. “What made you ask that?”
Signaling to her sweatshirt, I say, “You went to NYU, but I don’t know much else about you.”
“You know more than most.” Her words aren’t clipped, and she doesn’t sound bothered. If I didn’t know that she’d come here to talk about something else entirely, I’d guess this might be it.
I cautiously cover the next ten steps to get closer, but leave plenty of room for her to explore. “You’re really good at hiding and a master at distracting, changing the subject, and easing out of any situation that makes you uncomfortable. Call me selfish, but I’d like to know more instead of less.”
Worry creases her forehead, and she bites the inside of her cheek. “I came here to tell you. . .” Her breathing picks up, and her gaze falls to the floor. Her waterfall reaction has me curious to know how close I am to the cliff.
Is this it?
No more friendship?
“Would you like something to drink? I’m having whiskey.” I find my glass on the windowsill and take a sip.
“Oh, um. Sure. What do you have that has more alcohol than water but isn’t as strong as whiskey?”
“I’m pretty well stocked. Do you like wine? I have white or red.”
“A glass of white, please. Maybe that’s what I need.” I’m not sure I was supposed to hear the last part, but she’s not rushing to hide she said it.
Attempting to read her is one of the hardest things I’ve ever tried to do. I usually have no idea what she’ll say or what she needs. But I’m getting better. “Rough day?”
