Watch and See Page 2

  After she slips her dress back on and wads her stockings up, tossing them in the same trash can he deposited the condom, I put the binoculars down and walk to the freezer. Time to decide on the flavor of the night and cool the fuck down.

  Rocky Road? No.

  Cake Batter? Hmmm. Maybe.

  Blondie Ambition?

  My eyebrows shoot up, smiling wryly at the cosmic coincidence. That’s the winner. The blondie on the other side of the window sure had a lot of ambition tonight, I think to myself before prying off the lid and licking it clean. Situating myself back in the window seat, I pull the binoculars back up and make sure I didn’t miss anything.

  Sometimes, there’s a round two.

  “So,” Mia says, sighing as she stacks more books onto the cart we use for returns. “Any plans for the weekend?”

  “Connor and I are headed to his parents’ for the weekend. We need to get out of the city,” Layla replies. The stack of books she’s currently carrying is almost bigger than she is. Somehow, she makes it to the desk without dropping any or tipping herself over. For someone so short in stature, she makes up for it in all other areas. Everything else about Layla is big—personality, brain, and strength, apparently. “I really can’t stand my in-laws, but I love their place.” She shrugs her shoulders, and her coal black hair bounces as she laughs.

  “I was blessed with good in-laws.” Mia was blessed with good everything. She’s every man’s wet dream. The second they walk in and see her behind the desk, they forget what they’ve come in for. Her blonde hair is usually up in a tight bun and her usual attire consists of pencil skirts and button-up blouses with high heels. She even wears glasses, for goodness’ sake. I’d like to accuse her of being cliché, but that’s just Mia.

  “Please don’t nauseate me by going on about your perfect family,” Layla groans. “We’ve all heard how amazing the Abbotts are. No need to remind us.”

  “What about you, Harper?” Mia asks, redirecting the conversation. “What are your plans for the weekend?”

  “Same thing I do every weekend,” I admit, chuckling when they both look up at me with annoyed expressions. “What?”

  “You really have got to get out of that closet,” Layla groans. “Come to the in-laws with us. It’ll be great. You can be my decoy. It’ll give Connor a break. I bet his mother will love you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re not me,” she says sweetly, covering her heart with her hand. “And you didn’t steal her baby’s virtue.”

  “Oh, God!” I exclaim. “Please no sex talk.” I cover my ears in protest. Any time sex is brought up while we’re at work, both of them go on and on about their latest sexcapades. It’s not like I’m a prude or anything, but I don’t want to hear about how Connor can hold Layla up against the wall for forty minutes or how Kyle’s cock barely fits.

  That’s a direct quote, by the way.

  Now, when Connor and Kyle come visit Layla and Mia at work, I’m forced to hide out in the breakroom. I can’t face them. My cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  I smile to myself, thinking about what I witnessed last night through the binoculars. It’s not lost on me that I can watch someone have their brains screwed out, but my friends merely mentioning a penis, and I’m running for the hills.

  “Fine,” Layla says, giggling. “No sex talk for today, but you really do need to get out of that shit hole for the weekend.”

  “It’s not a shit hole.”

  “It used to be a storage closet before you moved in. It’s a shit hole.” Layla nods her head, agreeing with Mia.

  “Well, I was actually thinking about visiting my mom this weekend. She’s getting ready to go into the portion of her rehab that will require family therapy sessions.” I wrinkle my face in distaste. I’m not looking forward to that. I can’t imagine what a family therapy session will fix. She’s been broken for a long time. Sometimes, I wonder what I’m even doing here, why I’m even trying.

  “That’s good, sweetie,” Layla says, patting my hand. “You should do that. It’d be good for both of you.”

  “I don’t even know why you go see her,” Mia snarls. “She’s a shit mother who’s abandoned you over and over. She doesn’t deserve a visit.”

  “Stop, Mia,” Layla chides. “Harper,” she says, squeezing my hand. “This is for you. If you want to visit your mother, then you should, but whatever you do, do it for you. Got it?”

  I nod and gently pull my hand from hers, taking the stack of books and walking over to a shelf to begin putting them back where they belong. Layla is the only person who really understands my situation. We’ve known each other since junior high, and we’ve been friends ever since. Her mother bailed on her when she was five. The good thing is that her mother never came back. I know that sounds shitty, but it’s true. Mine would leave and go on a bender, only to return a few years later. It was a constant cycle of me being disappointed and getting my hopes up.

  Mia is right. She doesn’t deserve my time or my affection, but all I’ve ever wanted was a mother who loves me. It’s hard to explain to someone who’s always had that. Even though Sadie is a sorry excuse for a mother, she’s the only one I’ve got.

  When I got a call a couple of months ago that she was being placed in a long-term rehabilitation facility, I felt like it was my last chance, sort of a last-ditch effort. She’s never had this kind of help before. So I’m allowing myself to get my hopes up again, but I’m hoping that this time will be different. I’m not delusional enough to think she’ll ever be the mom who remembers holidays and birthdays or makes a big family dinner, but I’m hoping for something better than what I’ve had the past twenty-four years.

  That’s why I moved. That’s why I packed up my small apartment in Middletown and found something close to her. Layla got me the job at the library, which is close to my apartment and the rehab facility. When everything seemed to fall into place, I took it as a sign from the universe that this is where I’m supposed to be...

  This is what I’m supposed to be doing. It’s probably stupid, but honestly, I have nothing to lose.

  “Hey,” Layla says quietly as she walks up beside me. The library will be open in a few minutes, so our time for open conversation is over. “The offer stands if you change your mind. You’re welcome to come with us.”

  “Thanks, but I think I should stick around and make the visit to my mom.” I sigh and slide another book onto the shelf. “I mean, it’s why I’m here, right?”

  “Yeah,” she says, nodding her head.

  We continue to work side by side in comfortable silence. If nothing else, by moving here, I’ve gained two good friends. I’ve never let many people in, but Layla and I have always been close and had a quiet understanding between us. Even though we hadn’t seen each other for a few years, we’d always kept in touch, and once I moved here, we picked up where we left off. And Mia didn’t really give me a choice.

  §

  “See ya Monday, Harper,” Layla calls out as we reach the sidewalk in front of the library and she walks one way and I walk the other.

  I wave back to her. “Have a good time this weekend.”

  Looking at my watch, I see that it’s just a little after five, and I immediately begin to think about whether or not he’ll be home tonight and whether or not he’ll have someone with him. My heart begins to race as images flash through my mind. My pace picks up, and before I know it, I’m speed walking down the sidewalk.

  I make a quick stop at the store a couple of blocks from my building, picking up the necessities: cereal for breakfast tomorrow, a small carton of milk, Ramen Noodles, and three cartons of Ben & Jerry’s. The ice cream selection took me a few minutes. It’s important to have the right flavor. I never know exactly what the flavor of the night will be. I end up choosing Peanut Buttah, Banana Split, and Karamel Sutra. Although they all sound enticing, I’m kind of hoping the Karamel Sutra comes in handy. Just thinking about it has me biting down on my bottom lip to keep fro
m moaning.

  If Layla and Mia only knew.

  When I walk in through the front door of the restaurant, I wave to a busy Mr. Chan. It’s Friday evening, and this hole in the wall serves the best Chinese food around, so it’s packed.

  “You eat?” Mr. Chan asks above the noise from the patrons and his kitchen staff that consists of his wife, daughter, son, and a nephew.

  I hold up the brown sacks with my purchases from the grocery store and smile.

  He just shakes his head and goes back to taking orders at the counter, mumbling something I can’t hear, but I can guess he’s not happy that I don’t take him up on his free food. It’s really nice of him, but I feel bad sometimes. He already lets me rent this apartment dirt cheap.

  Once I’m up the stairs and in the apartment, I put my few groceries away and then change out of my work clothes into a t-shirt and pajama pants. Standing there, looking around the small space, I try to think of something else to do to occupy my time, but I can’t think of anything. The room is so small that it doesn’t require much cleaning. I have no one to cook for, no one to talk to, and laundry day isn’t until tomorrow.

  I glance over at the window sill where my blanket from last night is still crumpled up, and the binoculars sit and taunt me, calling me to them. Maybe just one little peek. I won’t look at his window. I’ll just watch people walking around down on the street...or maybe I’ll find another window with something interesting going on behind it.

  Climbing up there and getting comfortable, I pick the binoculars up and begin adjusting my sights. I take a moment and peruse down below. The other building beside mine keeps me from seeing the sidewalk, but I can look farther out between that building and the one where he lives. The street is bustling with cars, more so since it’s the weekend. Taxis blare their horns, pedestrians walk swiftly to their destinations, and occasionally a brightly colored shirt or a speeding car catches my attention. Other than that, it’s not nearly as captivating as what I normally watch a couple floors above.

  Slowly, I use the binoculars to scan the expanse of his building, looking for another window, someone else to give my attention to, but all the rest of the windows are shaded or have no one occupying them. The building itself is divided up between office and living space. The floors with office spaces are mostly vacant this time of day, save for a few late-working employees. But I can only see shadows and lights, nothing interesting enough to pay much attention to, so finally I give in and settle on the window that is calling my name.

  He’s not there. It’s empty, but it doesn’t keep me from looking. I’m fascinated by the simplicity of what I can see. It’s clean too, which makes sense. Whoever he is, he seems to like being in control. That’s evident in his hobbies and the condition of his apartment. The large floor-to-ceiling windows allow me to see so much, but he never opens the blinds farther down, the ones that I’m guessing open into his bedroom. That seems to be off limits. He also never takes women in there. I’ve watched long enough to know that all the action takes place right there in the window, the one I’m staring at when a dark form enters the room.

  He’s there.

  My heart rate spikes with anticipation, just like it always does when I see him there. He walks further into the apartment and puts a satchel and a few pieces of mail down on a side table close to the window. Standing there for a moment, he stares out into the city with his strong arms folded across his chest. I watch as his eyebrows furrow, and I wonder what makes him look like that. I don’t know if it’s a sad expression or angry. I wish I knew. There’s so much I wish I knew, like his name, for starters.

  He rubs his hand along his jaw and then into his hair. Maybe he’s thankful it’s the weekend? Maybe his job is really stressful? I wonder what he does for a living. My mind has gone so many places over the last few months. I’ve thought that maybe he’s a lawyer, but for some reason, that doesn’t fit. Maybe a CEO of some big important company? Maybe he’s a detective? Nah, his hours seem fairly regular. Occasionally, I’ve seen him leave after taking a phone call later in the evening. He could be a doctor, but I think doctors work much longer hours, or at least they seem to on Grey’s Anatomy. Those people practically live at the hospital.

  Eventually, he tugs at the tie around his neck until it comes completely undone, and he tosses it beside his mail on the table by the window. I lose sight of him as he walks farther into the apartment, possibly going to the kitchen for some dinner or a beer. Most guys drink beer when they come home from a hard day’s work, right?

  While he’s out of sight, I take the opportunity to get some dinner of my own and pop some Ramen noodles into the microwave. After the piping hot bowl is ready, I set it down on the window sill before hopping back up there. I check to see if he’s back, but he’s not, so I eat, blowing gently on the spoon until the noodles are at a bearable temperature to swallow. I haven’t eaten since the bagel I had this morning on my way to work, and I’m starving.

  A few minutes later, when my bowl is empty, washed, and dried, I’m back on my perch. Waiting.

  He finally comes back into view after a while, wearing the low-slung sweatpants I’ve come to love and carrying a bowl, which is very similar to the one I just washed. I smile.

  Maybe we’re not so different after all.

  He begins to eat and I’m captivated by the way his jaw is even more pronounced when he blows on the spoon before bringing it to his lips. His side profile is enough to bring me to my knees.

  After he finishes eating, he takes his bowl and leaves, but he’s not gone long this time. When he’s back in view, he walks to the couch and lies down, stretching his long legs out—exposing even more of his toned stomach. I swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth and bite down on my lip, trying to curb the desire rising inside me.

  I laugh out loud at myself. What the hell is wrong with me?

  He’s not even fucking someone against a window, and I’m turned on? How can I be this turned on by a guy laying around on his couch in his sweats? It’s crazy. But I can’t help it. I want him.

  When I’m convinced it’s going to be a quiet evening in for him, I retire the binoculars after one last look and pull myself away from the window. He needs rest, obviously, and I need something else to occupy my mind—gain some balance. Going to my milk crates I call bookshelves, I find a book I haven’t read in a while and settle on my bed, forcing my eyes to read the words.

  After an hour or so, the fantasy world between the pages isn’t holding my interest any longer, so I get up and stretch. Hanging upside down as I touch my toes, I notice the clock on my nightstand—barely nine o’clock. I guess I could go to sleep, but it’s still early, and it’s a Friday. Nothing says loser like going to bed early on the weekend.

  I try to resist the binoculars. I really do. But it’s like they’re calling my name—a beacon in my dimly lit, boring apartment—so I pick them back up and give a quick glance across the way, planning on satisfying my curiosity and then calling it a night. But when I focus in on the window, everything is different.

  The table is now cleared of his satchel and mail, and a woman is residing there, her long legs making a V in the air and his face is planted between them.

  Apparently, it’s time for a late night dessert.

  Karamel Sutra.

  As I wake up, I immediately start dreading the day. I should be grateful that it’s Saturday and that I don’t have to work, but today I planned on visiting my mom, and I never know how the visits are going to go. It’s strange because I’ve seen her half a dozen times since she’s been in rehab, which is more times than the previous six years. Sadie Evans has never been a permanent fixture in my life. When I was sixteen, my dad died and I’ll give her a little credit for the attempt she made—an attempt that didn’t last a year. I lived alone after that, paying rent with the savings account my dad had left me, which he’d kept secret from my mother. If she had known, it would have been gone. She would’ve used it to fund her next drug binge. Inste
ad, she left, claiming she was too sad. Apparently, I was too much of a reminder of my father and she couldn’t handle it.

  I know she loved him, although she had a really shitty way of showing it.

  And he loved her.

  But so did I—I loved them both.

  His death hurt me deeply. I lost my one true constant in life—the one person I knew loved me and the one I could always count on. However, I realize now that it probably hurt her more, because he’d always been her savior, and he was no longer around to do that.

  Maybe that was a good thing, though. Maybe he enabled her more than he saved her.

  The first time I visited her in rehab, she was so pissed. She yelled at me—spewed angry words and told me to leave—but as I was walking out the door and she broke down crying, I knew she didn’t really mean it. I think somewhere, deep down, she loves me too.

  My visits with her since then have been bipolar. One time, she’s happy to see me. The next time, she’s not and she’ll ask me why I’m still hanging around. She told me I should go back to Middletown, that I’m not cut out for the big city. Hearing her say that only made me want to stay that much more, if only to prove her wrong.

  I know she’s scared. I can see it in her eyes, especially these last few visits. The more sober she is—the further away she is from the drugs—the more scared she becomes. She’s forced to face reality, life. She’s never been good at that. She doesn’t know how to be a functioning human being, let alone a mother. But for some stupid reason, I keep hanging around, hoping one day she’ll figure her shit out.

  She’s all I’ve got left.

  Pulling myself out of bed, I get dressed for the day and gather my laundry, which is normally what I do on Saturdays, but I’ll have to do it when I get back.