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I look forward to these punishing swims in the early morning.
The driver pulls up outside the locked gates of Crave, and I hand him a ready wad of cash from my pocket.
Typing in the passcode, I unlock the gate and close it behind me, making my way around the back of the lot to find my car. Tossing my bag across the seat, I get in and head toward the gym, peering through a frosted windshield, my only focus is on breaking the cool surface and suffocating my thoughts. At least for an hour.
The shower scalds my skin, stripping it of not only the chlorine, but also any visible traces of my anguish. These early mornings are the only time I allow myself to think about her—to think about them—but I make a promise that after I leave that tiny shower stall at Globo, I’m all about Crave and the work I do there.
I do not bring it with me.
I moved to California to start over, and though it’s been four years, I’m still in the same state I was in when I left Michigan. No matter how far I’ve traveled, I still carry them with me.
I’m trying to move ahead, like the first therapist advised me. He also said punishing yourself forever doesn’t change the past, and that it would serve me better to work through the pain and move ahead than tread water in it daily, even if it’s only mental.
I never went back to that guy. He doesn’t understand. I can’t escape the past in my mind.
Once I’m back in my car, I realize I must’ve cut the swim short. I have twenty minutes to spare before I usually arrive at Crave—and I’m there an hour before everyone else as it is.
I drum my fingers over the steering wheel, watching a homeless man push a stolen shopping cart full of tin cans up the sidewalk in front of Crave.
She was weak last night. That headache made her shaky and she was clearly in pain. Does that go away with sleep? I run my hand through my still damp hair. Fuck, I don’t know. But she could need a ride to work. She could need…something.
I sit in my car, chewing the inside of my mouth, stroking my hand through my hair, clutching the back of my neck, touching everything because I’m suddenly riddled with nervous energy. Why do I feel the need to make sure she’s okay? In fact, why do I feel uneasy and anxious at the idea of hernotbeing okay?
Scarlett.
That’s a beautiful name. And she’s… she’s fucking gorgeous.
Something happens in my stomach at that realization. A hollowing followed by an uneasy spinning. My head even grows a little woozy. My uneasiness urges me to check on her.
I’ve worked at Crave for four years. I’ve been around beautiful naked women having and giving orgasms for most of that time. And Lucy Lovegood is the first woman to ever steal my focus. The first human being to ever take my thoughts away frommyshame for more than a few moments.
I drive to her apartment, not really sure how I’ll explain myself if she asks why I’m there. If she questions why a coworker who has spoken less than fifty words to her is checking up on her. I don’t have an answer. But the idea of going straight to Crave without knowing if she woke up feeling okay or whether she’s well enough to get here… it drives me mad, so I drive to her instead.
Her car is still where I parked it, which brings a strange sense of relief or… I don’t know, satisfaction? I scratch at the side of my jaw as I stand at the bottom of the cement stairs, peering up at her apartment door while early morning chills my ears and nose.
Should I be doing this?
I take two stairs.
Why do I care so much about this woman when I don’t even know her?
I climb three more stairs.
What could it hurt to check on her?
I move the rest of the way up, my hand gliding against the metal railing, chilled from the San Francisco morning. Standing in front of her door, anxiety floods my veins and my heart pumps like I ran those stairs instead of taking them with weighty hesitation.
This is fucking weird, Cohen,I think, ready to turn around and ignore all these feelings I’m having out of nowhere. Putting myself in her goddamn shoes, why would I show up here again? I have no business here so I retreat the way I came.
But I stop on the top step and turn around, blinking at the closed door.
A phone is ringing, and it sounds like it’s near the door. Is she standing by the door holding her phone, looking out her peep hole, waiting to call the cops and tell them some fucking loser is standing outside her place at 6am?
I look down at the descending stairs, unsure of what to do. But the phone rings again and then again, so I make a choice.
Gently, I knock at her door with a closed fist, hoping to God she’s awake so I don’t scare her. Being woken up to a phone ringing off the hook is one thing, paired with someone pounding on the door… Well, that’s a whole other trauma. I fucking know.
With one palm on the doorframe and the other against the door, I lean and call for her, as soft as one can while still penetrating a door.
