Watch and See Page 7

  I work in the quiet of the stacks, doing the job no one else wants to do, but relishing it. It makes me look good, like I’m taking one for the team, but in reality, it’s one of my favorite places to be. When I’m in here, I lose track of time and escape into my thoughts. The old books and I are dear friends. Sometimes, I’ll take out a book that I know hasn’t been touched in years, and I’ll flip through the pages, smelling the aged paper. There’s just something about being around words that have been around for a hundred years. It’s like it gives life meaning and purpose.

  When I was younger, I’d always volunteer in our school library. I know the librarian thought I was doing it to get away from my peers, but that was just a bonus. I did it because, even at a young age, books gave me the alternate reality I so desperately needed, but they also made me feel connected. That old saying that knowledge is power was true for me. The more I read and learned and expanded my mind, the less small and insignificant I felt. I guess books were my own personal therapy. Still are.

  “Harper?” Layla’s voice comes from the far end of the room.

  “Back here.”

  “It’s after five. Mia and I are ready to leave. We thought maybe we could all grab a drink or something.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right down.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the three of us are walking down the steps of the library when a head of dark brown hair catches my attention. Wyatt is leaning against a post at the bottom of the steps and turns toward us with his bright white smile. A hint of frustration spikes. I don’t know why, but I feel like he’s invading my space.

  “Ladies,” he says, kicking off the post and walking toward the three of us.

  “Hey, Wyatt,” Mia greets, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “What brings you here?”

  He shrugs. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by to see if anyone was up for drinks or dinner.” He’s speaking as if he’s referring to the three of us, but his eyes are trained on me, and I give him a warning glare. It seems as though my ‘just friends’ talk from last week has fallen on deaf ears.

  “Just as friends, of course,” he adds, forcing me to roll my eyes. The fact that he knew what I was thinking kind of pisses me off. And it kind of makes me smile because Wyatt is a hard person to stay mad at.

  “Actually, we were all thinking about grabbing a drink, so it’s good that you stopped by,” Layla chimes in. “Let me text Connor and see if he and Kyle want to meet us.”

  “Sounds good.”

  We all start walking in the direction of the pub we stop at after work from time to time. I guess Kyle and Connor are also en route, so it makes it one big group outing.

  I can do group outings.

  Once we’re at the pub, I let them talk me into a few drinks. Wyatt insists on buying the first round, and when Kyle shows up, he says the second round is on him. He landed some big account today and wants to celebrate.

  It’s rude to turn down free booze.

  With the liquor flowing lightly through my veins, I feel tingly, and my lips feel numb but in a good way. I allow myself to just be, trying not to think of Luke or my mother, just being with my friends. Wyatt plays nice. He doesn’t try to hold my hand or kiss my cheek. He just sits across from me and continues to be his charming, polite self.

  I like this Wyatt.

  When everyone begins to say their goodbyes, it’s only natural that Wyatt and I are left to pair up for a taxi. I tell him it’s out of his way to ride with me, but he feels it’s his chivalrous duty to see that I make it home safely. Kyle told him he had to, so I let it happen. Besides, he’s stuck to his friend role this evening, so maybe this will work after all.

  As the taxi approaches my corner, I instruct him to stop and I take out my share of the fare. Wyatt pushes the money back at me and says it’s on him. He also offers to get out with me and walk me to my door, but I tell him I’ll be fine. He can watch me from the taxi.

  Walking down the sidewalk and eventually through the glass door, I turn and give an obligatory wave to the departing taxi behind me.

  The second the door shuts behind me, my phone buzzes in my bag, causing me to pause.

  Wyatt: I had fun tonight, friend. ;)

  Is he mocking me?

  I sigh and roll my eyes, tossing my phone back into my bag without replying.

  “Another date?” Mr. Chan asks when he sees me. I look up to see him waggling his thick dark eyebrows with a suggestive smirk and I must laugh.

  “No, Mr. Chan. Just a friend.”

  He mumbles something to himself, turning his attention back to the food he’s preparing, but it’s then I feel eyes on me. Turning, I see the face I’ve been missing all week.

  “Mr...uh, Luke.” My voice is half disbelief, half relief. I hope he doesn’t detect the latter.

  His lips turn up in a side smile. “How are you, Harper?”

  “I’m good.” Frozen in my spot, I glance back at the stairs that lead to my apartment and then back at him. “How are you?” I ask, forcing my feet a little closer to the small table he’s sitting at by the door.

  “Better now,” he says, pointing down to his mostly empty plate.

  “Best Chinese food in the city.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to try it for some time now. Tonight, I was walking home from a late meeting, and it called my name. Sometimes you just need some Moo Goo Gai Pan, ya know?”

  I nod my head again in agreement. “Absolutely.”

  He smiles, and I smile, and it makes my stomach flutter.

  “Have you eaten?” he asks, and I don’t know what to say to that. Is he offering for me to eat with him? Do I say yes?

  “Uh.” I begin by stalling, buying myself some time.

  “You eat, Harper,” Mr. Chan demands from behind me, obviously eavesdropping.

  Nosy old man.

  I smile and turn to look at Mr. Chan. “I’ll have a soup.”

  “With extra wontons,” he says with a satisfied grin on his face.

  “Yeah, with extra wontons.”

  Luke motions to the seat across from him. “Please,” he says, but he doesn’t have to. I’d fight snakes and walk through fire to sit near him.

  Mr. Chan walks the soup around the counter and places it in front of me. “On the house,” he says, and I shake my head.

  “I’ll pay you Thursday.”

  His large hand pats my shoulder as he walks by, and I hear him begin to whistle a happy tune when he gets back behind the counter. Some nights, I hear that tune from my apartment. It’s comforting, makes me smile.

  When I feel Luke watching me, I look up. His blue eyes are deep and intense with a mysterious edge. It’s hard for me to read him. I’m always left wondering what he’s thinking.

  “The soup’s great too,” I say, trying to break the layer of tension that’s settled over the small table.

  “I’ll have to try that next time.” He puts his napkin down on his plate and leans back in his chair. “So, Harper. Tell me about yourself.”

  Oh, God. As much as I love being near him, that question makes me feel like running. Part of me wants to lie and make myself sound interesting and exotic, like one of his girls: Blondie Ambition or Red Velvet Cake. The other part of me wants to tell him the truth, wants him to know the real me. But the truth about Harper Evans is I’m nothing like those girls—his girls. If they’re Rocky Road, I’m vanilla, and not even a fancy version, like Vanilla Caramel Fudge. I’m just plain old vanilla.

  “Well, there’s not much to tell, really. You already know where I’m from and that my mom’s a rehab regular. I moved here recently to be closer to her while she’s in treatment, and I work at the local library. I’m pretty boring, actually.”

  I poke at a wonton in my soup with my spoon to keep from looking at him. I don’t want to see the look of pity on his face that I’m certain is there.

  “I don’t think you’re boring, and I think you’ve shown tremendous strength by moving out here and supporting Sadie
. Family support is key in a patient’s recovery. I know it’s not easy hearing her side of things, but you seem to be handling it well.”

  Heat floods my face, and my eyes fly up to see Luke smiling at me. I could seriously die right here and be okay with it.

  “I...I don’t want to talk about Sadie anymore,” I tell him, nervously playing with the napkin by my now empty bowl of soup. I don’t like the spotlight on me, and I’d really like to know about him. “What about you? How long have you been a therapist?”

  He takes a long pull from his drink before answering and I can’t help but notice the way his lips purse around the straw. I could watch his mouth all damn day.

  “Only a couple of years. I started at the center after I passed my certification. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do—help people.” The way he speaks about his work lets me know that he loves what he does. He’s passionate about it. The way his brows are furrowed with intensity reminds me of his expression when he’s...with someone. It’s that same passion and it fascinates me. “Tell me about the library. What made you want to work there?”

  “Besides needing a job?” I ask, feeling self-conscious about answering questions about myself.

  He nods. “Yeah, besides that.”

  “I really love books. I always have. In high school, I’d always volunteer in the library. I worked at a small one back home before I moved here.”

  “And where’s home?”

  “Middletown.”

  “That’s a couple hours from here, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you like the city?”

  I blow out a deep breath and look around the now empty restaurant. “It’s big and kinda lonely sometimes. Is it weird to feel lonely in a city this big?” I don’t know why I just told him that.

  “No, not weird at all.” The way he tilts his head and looks at me is equally unnerving and exhilarating, like he’s looking straight into my soul.

  “What about you?” I ask, taking the focus off me and my stupid words. “Have you always lived here?”

  “Uh, no. I grew up on Mustang Island.”

  “Is that a real island?” I ask, and he laughs.

  “Yeah, it’s a real island, water on all sides.” He raises his eyebrows as he takes another drink.

  “I’ve never been on an island before.” I still have no idea why I keep saying stupid shit, but I obviously can’t help myself.

  “You’re not missing much. It’s a small place where everyone knows your business, which is why I moved here. Even though the big city can feel lonely, at least you can walk down the street without feeling like everyone is talking about you.”

  I nod my head in agreement because I get that, and because I feel like he’s giving me a little piece of himself, telling me something deeper than just where he’s from. “Yeah, that’s one of the good parts.”

  Our conversation continues to flow as we talk more in depth about our jobs and what we like about the city...and what we don’t like about the city, and I get lost in him and his words. So much so, I’m completely caught off guard when Mr. Chan tells us we have to leave because it’s closing time.

  Luke looks down at his watch and lets out a chuckle. “Wow, we’ve been talking for over an hour. I apologize for taking up so much of your time, Harper. I hope I didn’t interfere with your plans for the evening.”

  If he only knew about my usual evening plans. Actually, thank God he doesn’t know about my usual evening plans.

  “No, not at all,” I smile, feeling a surge of nerves at the thought of where I usually see him, trying to reconcile those actions and that man to the one in front of me. “This was definitely better than what I had planned, which was reading in bed.” It’s a lie. I mean, eventually, I would’ve read in bed, but before that, I would’ve climbed into my window and cozied up with my binoculars, waiting for him to make an appearance.

  However, the past hour and a half talking to Luke has been even better than my normal nightly routine. In fact, it’s been so good that I don’t want the night to end; I want to keep learning about him and listening to him talk—watching the way his brows furrow and his lips purse, listening to the deep chuckle and the way he rubs his hand along the scruff on his jaw.

  “Well, I guess I should get home. It was nice running into you like this. Could I help you catch a taxi or walk you to your building?” he asks, and I realize he thinks I’m a regular here and that we happened to choose the same restaurant for dinner.

  “I live here.” I point over my shoulder to the small hallway behind me that leads to the narrow staircase.

  “Oh, that explains how you know Mr. Chan so well.”

  “Yeah, he’s my landlord, and he likes to make sure I eat enough.” I roll my eyes and smile lightly, thinking fondly of the old man. “He’s kind of relentless, but I don’t want to take advantage of him. He’s already been very generous to me.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” he says with sincerity. “Well, have a good night, Harper, and I’ll see you at this week’s session.” There’s something there—something in his eyes and the way he looks at me—that makes my heart race and my breathing speed up, but then his expression changes—going a bit rigid as he nods his head and ducks out of the restaurant.

  “Okay, you too,” I call out just before the door closes completely, watching him through the window as he turns in the direction of his apartment.

  Once he’s gone, I adjust my bag on my shoulder and head down the hallway. “Goodnight, Mr. Chan,” I say over my shoulder as I take the stairs two at a time. I need to watch Luke tonight. Even though I just saw him and talked to him, I need more. Hopefully, since he was with me so late, there won’t be anyone joining him tonight.

  I’m not sure my heart could take that.

  When I get to my apartment, I quickly change into my pajamas and wash my face, knowing it’ll take him a few extra minutes to get to his apartment. Kneeling in the window of my dark room, I pull the binoculars up and focus in across the way. His apartment is dark. There’s not even a lamp on in the living room. I swallow down the lump in my throat as disappointment sits heavy in my chest.

  What does the darkness mean? Did he leave the restaurant and go to a bar or club to pick up a woman?

  Why couldn’t the woman have been me?

  I’m sure there’s some sort of line he’d be crossing if that were to happen—a code of ethics—or the more logical explanation: I’m just not his type. I already know that, but having concrete evidence is crushing. I want him so bad it hurts. I could make him feel good. I know I could. I’ve been watching. I know exactly what he likes.

  I sit with my knees pulled up to my chest and the binoculars at my side, staring out across the city that never seems to sleep, waiting for a light to come on. After what seems like hours but is probably only one, if that, a light turns on in the apartment, but Luke never comes to the window. I still wait and watch, but he must go straight to bed. I should feel happy about that—happy he’s not with someone else tonight. And I am, but a small part of me misses the rush and the heat. I’m left once again wondering what he’s thinking, hoping that somehow, I can get him to let me in.

  The urge to pick up the binoculars and look across the way is too much tonight. Even though I’m going to see him in the family therapy session tomorrow, I want to watch him so bad. I want to see him through the window. I want to feel the fire flickering through my veins. This must be how a junkie feels. My mother talking about the struggle of wanting drugs and not being able to have them is on repeat in my mind. Luke is my drug, and I’m craving him something fierce.

  I walk over and turn off the small lamp by my bed, bathing my room in darkness. If I’m going to do this, I need to be careful. After our chat in the restaurant the other night, I’m sure Luke realizes the proximity of our apartments. I wonder if he’s looked over here. Not that he could see anything. I’m only awarded the view I get thanks to the high-powered binoculars. With the naked eye, the only t
hing he’d be able to see would be lights and maybe movement in the window, but no details. Nothing like what I’m seeing right now.

  The gray sweatpants are slung low on his hips, the deep V on full display. My mouth waters, causing me to swallow hard. He braces himself against the glass with his hands, peering out at the city below him.

  My heart beats faster as he turns his gaze outward. I wonder if he senses someone watching him. He stands there for a long time, and I don’t budge—not even when my arms tire due to the weight of the binoculars. I can’t tear my eyes away from him—his bare chest, long torso, lean muscles. I wish it were daylight or there were more lights on in his apartment because I need to see his face more clearly, but it’s covered in shadow. I want to know what he’s feeling. If it’s sadness, I want to take it away. If it’s hurt, I want to ease his pain. If it’s need, I want to fulfill it.

  After a while, he turns his back to the window and slides down to the floor.

  And I continue to watch.

  I’m not sure how I’d be feeling right now if a woman were to walk into his apartment. A few weeks ago, excitement would’ve flooded my body, along with anticipation, but not now. I have to admit that I’m relieved he’s alone. Even though I know there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that I’ll ever be one of those women, my traitorous heart goes a little rogue sometimes, feeling things I tell it not to.

  When the sun breaks through my window, I crack an eye open and realize I’m still sitting on the hard window sill. My ass is numb, and I can’t move my neck. After wiping the sleep out of my eyes, I pick up the binoculars from my lap and focus in on Luke’s apartment. My breath catches in my throat when I see that he’s still leaning against the glass. I wish I could get closer, go to him. Something about him sleeping there makes my heart ache. I sit up on my knees to see if I can get some feeling back in my ass, but I don’t take my eyes off the window. I want to see him when he wakes up. Something about us both sleeping in the window makes me feel a weird connection.