AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Of all the small changes I’ve had to make while being pregnant so far, giving up caffeine has been one of the hardest. Besides the obvious challenges of functioning without it, whoever said that decaf doesn’t taste different wasdefinitelylying to themselves.
There’s a small, vintage-themed coffee shop near my doctor’s office, and I duck inside after my appointment. Even if I do have to get a decaf coffee, it’s nice to just sit and relax for a few minutes, especially after the stress of the doctor’s visit.
The obstetrician herself is wonderful—a very sweet and friendly woman not much older than I am, with a knack for making funny jokes that relax me and a comforting manner. But ever since my father’s illness, anything to do with doctors or hospitals makes me anxious.
I get a vanilla cinnamon latte and an apple fritter, and sink down into a soft velvet chair next to the window. There’s a light late-summer drizzle falling outside, and I watch the drops hit the glass, enjoying the novelty of it. It hardly ever rains in California, but in the last month here, it’s rained more often than not, and I haven’t gotten tired of it yet. Abby has informed me that within another month, I’ll be utterly sick of it.
My phone buzzes as I reach for a bite of my fritter, and I look at it, seeing at a glance that it’s an email from the realtor I contacted last week. My chest tightens, and I slip my phone back into my pocket, not wanting to deal with that right now. The morning has been enough of a roller-coaster of emotions without adding that conversation to it just now.
I’m going to have to sell the condo. There’s no question about that—it’s just coming to terms with it. It was officially listed yesterday—sold furnished, since I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to go back right now and handle clearing it out—and I have a feeling that the realtor’s call has something to do with an offer. Real estate goes fast in Los Angeles, especially anything sold for a half-decent price. I don’t really care about making a profit so long as the balance of the mortgage is covered. It feels wrong to profit off of having to sell my childhood home.
And for now, at least, it’s not my biggest concern. Abby insisted on me staying, and now I’m renting that guest bedroom from her—if you can call leaving a money order on the counter and telling her that I’m not taking it back ‘renting.’ She wanted me to stay for free, insisting that the company was more valuable, but I have to contribute in some way. I already know that what I’m giving her is less than what a lot of rooms rent for in Seattle. And it’s not hurting me. I got a spot at a good shop the first week that I was here, and I’ve settled in fairly well.
It’s not the Night Orchid, and Seattle doesn’t really feel like home, but I can see how, in time, I might be happy here. The hardest part, other than living somewhere new for the first time in my life, is not thinking about Dante.
I miss him. I miss our conversations, his laugh, and the way his hands felt every time he touched me. I lie awake at night sometimes, aching to feel him next to me again, missing both the pleasure and the companionship. I’ve never been in love before, but in retrospect—and far too late—I think I was falling in love with Dante.
Every time I think about trying to date again, I dismiss the thought instantly. I honestly don’t know how I ever will. I can’t imagine how anyone could ever measure up to what we briefly had, how it could not feel inferior in comparison. And on top of that, I have a permanent reminder of him. He’ll never fully leave my life, just as I’ll never fully leave his.
I knew I would be homesick for Los Angeles, and I am, in a way that feels as if it has sunk down into my bones. But I didn’t know it was possible to feel the same thing for a person.
My phone buzzes again, and I reach for it. It’s Abby, and I scan the text quickly.
I’m done with my last client soon. Lunch? We can grab a bite at that new sandwich place downtown.
I type back a quick affirmation, checking the time. I have probably another thirty minutes before I would need to start walking that way—the sandwich shop is a couple blocks from where I am, and I relax back in the chair, opening up my email. I look at the message from the realtor, and it’s exactly what I thought—there’s already been an offer on it. Full price, no negotiation.
Fine. Handle the closing. I’ll sign the documents when you send them over.
I don’t want to think about it any more than I actually have to. Just reading the email makes my chest feel tight and my eyes burn, and I close the app quickly, put my phone down, and finish my coffee.
It shouldn’t be that simple to sign away a lifetime of memories, a home that I thought I’d stay in forever. Just a few signatures, a bank transfer, and that part of my life is done.
I wonder if it will be easier to put it behind me, once it’s over with.
It hasn’t worked for Dante. I changed my phone number so that he couldn’t contact me, but it hasn’t kept me from missing him, wanting him—dreaming of him, even, more nights than I should. Every time I schedule a doctor’s appointment, take a prenatal vitamin, or read another article about how I’m supposed to be preparing for the rest of this pregnancy that I’m only two months into, he slips back into my head. And I wonder, every time, if I made the right choice.
Shaking my head, I get up, dropping my mug and plate off at the counter before heading for the door. I tug on my raincoat, pulling the hood up against the drizzle, and step out onto the sidewalk. As I do, I think I see someone in my periphery, staring at me.
I turn sharply, but there’s no one there. A chill runs down my spine.
It’s nothing,I tell myself, starting to walk in the direction of where I’m meeting Abby.Just a trick of the eye, between having your hood up and the rain.I’m not usually so jumpy, but the residual anxiety from my doctor’s appointment and the gloom that settled over me after that email has deeply affected my mood.
Lunch with Abby will help that, though. It’s impossible to stay upset for long while hanging out with her.
Halfway down the first block, I think I hear footsteps following close behind me. I turn again, my heart slamming against my ribs—but once again, there’s no one.You’re being far too jumpy,I repeat to myself, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m being followed. It crawls over my skin, making my heart beat faster, and I suck in a breath as I pick up my pace. I don’t like how this feels.
At the end of the first block, I stop at the crosswalk, looking behind me again. There’s no one, even though I could have sworn I still heard those footsteps—as if someone has been following me and then quickly ducking away. There are plenty of alleyways along this street, and I feel that crawling sensation again, picturing someone tracking me and then darting away.
Why would anyone do that?Maybe in LA, if whoever hurt Dante that one time wanted to get to me, but no one other than Abby even knows I came to Seattle. I certainly don’t have anyone who would have a reason to track me down here.
I let out a sharp breath, starting to cross the street—and almost run directly into a bicyclist pedaling toward me.
“Shit!” I shriek, jumping backward onto the other side of the curb, narrowly avoiding getting hit. He flips me off, shouting something I don’t quite hear—and then I feel the sudden grip of a hand curling around my upper arm.
I don’t even have a moment to react before that hand jerks me backward and into an alleyway.
“Don’t scream,” a deep voice murmurs in my ear, a meaty hand covering my mouth. “Not that anyone will care, anyway. That’s the beauty of cities, isn’t it? No one gives a shit about anyone other than themselves. Certainly not you.”
