“Oh DeSean, what am I going to do with you, kid? Come on, let’s get you home.”
\/\/\/
The next morning, they are all back: the tomboyish blonde woman and her boyfriend on BART, and the beautiful man and woman with the white Aston Martin waiting after school, but who never pick up a child.
\/\/\/
The next Friday night, as my Uber drives away, I wrestle my keys out of my deep cavernous bag. Once again, the streets are quiet except for a few college students huddled together several feet away drinking Starbucks in sweaters and rolled up jeans. A few of the male students flirtatiously play a game of keep away with one of the female’s purses while she meekly tells them to stop.
One long and wide scan of my block before I enter my apartment is now commonplace. Behind me, across the street, is a large man leaning against the metal fence. At first my eyes move past him, but then turn back. His green eyes are captivating underneath thick messy, dark hair. At first, because he is watching me, my pepper spray practically leaps into my hand—but I calm down when taking a closer look and see the relaxed nature of his body. The intensity behind his eyes, yet soft smile, force me to examine him while the college students nearby grow louder and more obnoxious. Not even their disruptive game derails the connection between us. I try to pretend that I am spending most of these precious moments figuring out the key situation, but he knows it is all a facade. His five o’clock shadow and slight wrinkles around his eyes tell me that he is possibly in his thirties, maybe forties. His eyes are a deep green behind olive skin, and he stands nearly two inches above a six-foot-tall gate.
Perhaps instinctively I know that despite his large and assuming frame, there is something about him that is simply safe. I can’t tell what he is thinking, but it seems earnest when he won’t look away.
Suddenly I hear “Watch out!” before one of the students knocks me over as he dives for the purse.
“I’m so sorry!” the guy vehemently states, partially serious and partially laughing.
The man with green eyes rushes forward to the middle of the street as they pull me to my feet.
“It’s fine,” I say as I turn back to my apartment lobby door. Finally, I find the key and with blushing cheeks, I depart, but not before taking one last look at the man with green eyes. There is something so familiar about him.
Inside my apartment, I rush to the window and scan the street. But he is gone—much to my disappointment.
The following morning I gaze at a perfect view of the sun rising over the city out my window, my tea burning my lip as I watch. Perfect rows of stratus clouds line the sky while taps of precipitation pelt my window, leaving sections of my view in watercolor.
As I follow a drop of water down the glass, my eyes catch something in the background. My focus turns to the tall man across the street.
He stands confidently in the middle of the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets—looking at me. As the sun rises, his face becomes clearer under a mist that dampens his dark hair. There is something about him that wraps around me like an old T-shirt, which means that as he watches me in the privacy of my home it seems strange to accept it—or bigger yet, feel as though it makes sense. When the sun finally reaches its place in the gray sky it catches my interest.
“What are you smiling at?”
I jump when a man’s voice hits my ears. Ian stands on the threshold with his Kings bag over his shoulder, wearing a Kings jersey and a Dodgers cap. He is a child.
“You scared me.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you heard me come in. I hollered at you a couple of times.”
“You did? Out loud?” I ask sarcastically.
“You knew I was coming. We talked about everything I needed to get done today and you said you would go.”
Suddenly I remember. “Sorry, I’m just not getting much sleep.”
“Do you need me to move in?”
“I need you to get out of my house if you keep saying stuff like that.” I walk past him into my kitchen, and he follows.
“I’m just kidding. Come on . . . let’s go. Let’s go!” He grabs my purse and stands by the door.
“Why don’t you ever give me more than a few seconds?”
He shrugs. “Come on. I have a lot of things to do.”
We walk down the small corridor and then take the narrow stairs one by one to the lobby. The old door to the street squeaks on its hinges as Ian throws it open, instantly revealing the wet has begun to dissipate.
My heart whimpers just a bit from the downtown buzz because of a jazz festival in the square. Even the people that surround us as we head down the street cause me to sweat and my knuckles to become white. It isn’t until we stop at a crosswalk that I notice the man from my window just a bit to my left. He isn’t looking at the phone in his hand or paying attention to the crowd. Instead, he keeps a steady gaze on me. We have never been this close and my stomach twists. I can’t look away, and it seems neither can he.
As Ian is in his wondrous oblivion, I stare at the green eyes. His hair looks just a bit lighter and his clothes are casual. Under his messy hair he is far from average.
While we wait for the light to turn green, he tucks the phone into his back pocket, then steps closer, pushing his way to stand beside me. It is possible that I won’t breathe again, at least until the distance between us widens. For the first time I can smell the soap on his skin, and he comes so close our arms touch. He looks down at me and our chemistry is unmatched. I attach myself to his stare, as if it is my only possibility to draw close. His desire for me is transparent just as the light turns green and the crowd pushes us apart. Something about the way his jaw clenches with disappointment reminds me of the night of the attack and the man across the restaurant in the blue sweater.
“Come on,” Ian says while still staring at his phone.
Yet as I walk away, my eyes stay on this man and his on mine. The crowd billows out around him as he stays still, and he continues to watch me until the people swallow him.
CHAPTER SIX
I love Christmas. Even when my students are drawing pictures of Santa a month before the actual holiday, the wave of nostalgia makes me smile. Tonight, the vision of my empty apartment on Christmas morning makes me wonder if I have made a mistake by saying no to Ian’s invitation.
The cold is beginning to seep through my jeans on my way home from grocery shopping. Just as my feet jump off the curb to cross the street, a strong icy breeze lifts the end of my scarf, the smell of possibly burnt potatoes from a nearby house wafts by, and a man is standing directly across the street, staring at me.
I stop abruptly on the asphalt.
He doesn’t move, rather he glares at me with callous eyes. This feels nothing like the other people who have been watching me; rather the same feeling as the night of the attack overwhelms me, the hair on my neck stands upright. My mother reminded me often, “Listen to your instincts.”
He is tall and built, his eyes small and squinty. The wave of his dark hair falls just past his ears and his skin is pasty white as though he hasn’t been in the sun in years. His thick lips are tight as he glares at me.
“Remona.” His voice constricts like someone who hasn’t taken a breath for too long.
