But now that I’m here . . . That’s a whole other story.
The building itself is old. It might be a part of the preserved historic buildings in the area from the look of it, with splattered ivy snaking up the side of the mottled red brick. The large gold art-deco-era sign above the entrance reads The Dome. Dizziness swirls through my head when I crane my neck to catch a view of the top floor. It’s about ten stories high. Whoosh. Another wave of dizziness, and I almost crumble to my feet.
What am I doing? No, but really, what the fuck am I doing?
An almost magnetic pull has me shifting my weight from one foot to the other toward the direction of my apartment building.
It’s crazy to come here. It’s crazy to show up at someone’s apartment unannounced in general, but to show up unannounced to the home of a near stranger you met on the internet? Someone who you suspect might be catfishing you? What am I, some kind of stalker? Or worse, someone with a death wish?
But a small voice inside me won’t shut up. You made it this far. He can’t just abandon you. He can’t just leave you. Who does he think he is? Your father?
A laugh hits the center of my chest at the thought, but it breaks the panic. So, I tighten up my coat, toss my now-empty coffee cup into the wrought iron trash can in front of the building, and approach.
I push out a breath as I open the front door.
The lobby of the building is ornate, vaulted, shiny, but it has a haunted quality. Old paintings of men at sea are on display. Also, large, lacquered fish are hung high on the wall. Well, whoever decorated the lobby is certainly consistent. A small waterfall is situated on a coffee table next to a book. I tiptoe over as if I’m breaking the law and look.
Moby Dick.
I’m sensing a theme. Mackthefishguy lives in a fish building. Interesting.
The elevators are off the lobby in a narrow hallway. A doorman snores behind a desk, his brimless navy cap tilted just over his brow. Otherwise, not a soul in sight. Definitely for the best. I might die if I had to get in an elevator with another person.
I press the button and get inside. It’s rickety, lurching a bit as it rises. I cross my arms, gripping onto my chest.
For the millionth time, I doubt this decision.
For the millionth and first time, my desires override my rationale.
The dull orange numbers light one by one as I ascend through the floors until finally, five illuminates. Another lurch of the elevator and then an off-tune ding. And before I know it, the metal doors slide open, revealing a new territory. My own road less traveled.
Now, all I need to do is figure out which unit belongs to Mack.
Hmmm. The last thing I want is to have to see or talk to anyone extra, so knocking on each door is out of the question. I’ve got to keep the interactions down to a minimum.
It’s a good thing I’m an expert at that.
The hallway, at first, appears liminal. Never ending and otherworldly. The low-ply carpet is navy with a turquoise swirl traveling like a wave up and down the strip of rectangular flooring. The lighting is a warm, dull yellow.
But there are only a few doors.
My brain scrambles. How do I figure this out? Work smarter, not harder.
First thing. Doormats.
I don’t think Mack would have a mat outside his door. Most men don’t. And if he is the man with blond hair and green eyes in the picture, then he definitely doesn’t have a doormat.
That eliminates two of the doors in the hallway. The first doormat reads Come as You Are.
The second has a million pictures of a man’s face printed on it that reads STEP ON ME. A custom joke doormat. Definitely not Mack. At least, I hope not because there’s a fetish I’m not trying to explore.
Okay, three left. I feel like I’m playing Carmen Sandiego or something. I was always good at that game as a kid.
The door closest to me has a winding green pothos. This could be Mack’s. He likes aquariums, so the odds are good that he also wants to keep a plant alive. But upon closer inspection, a sheen of dust indicates that the plant is plastic. For some reason, I just know that’s not his. He’s not a plastic plant guy. No way. In fact, in the Aquariumaniacs forum, he specifically ranted about how he wasn’t a fan of plastic plants. The fish can tell the difference. Some plastic plants can even irritate fish fins.
That leaves me with two more doors.
I put my ear against one of the doors and hear a TV blaring. It’s loud. A blustering conservative news station.
There’s no way in hell that’s Mack.
I can’t. No, I refuse to believe it. I won’t even allow it into the realm of possibilities.
So, that leaves me with one other door.
There’s no mat, no plant, no sound. Just a regular wooden door.
And behind it? Behind it is do or die.
The fact that I’ve made it this far is, quite frankly, astounding. Part of me wants to call Kate, but a larger part of me pulls away. Keep this a secret for now. A secret close to my heart.
And the thing I want to know most of all? Mack’s secret. What’s he hiding?
I bring my fist to the wood and knock, knowing there’s a chance that absolutely nothing will happen. In fact, I’m kind of banking on it. If nothing happens, then I won’t get an answer I don’t want to know. Schrödinger’s Mackthefishguy.
But when I get no response, I’m surprised to find that it actually kind of pisses me off. I don’t feel relieved at all. If anything, I’m a little more wound up.
I knock again, but this time with more force.
