▪️Saturday, November 28th, 2017 ▪️

▪️Chicago, IL▪️

The east-facing window spills cool rays of sunshine, last night's tempest forgotten. As if the weather has cried all its tears and, as a consolation prize, is offering us a reminder of what a day of sun is like.

Amelie got home late last night wet from rain and tears and refused to talk to me. Instead of being elated about the opportunities the next five years in the country of her birth will bring her, the degree she was after, spending time with her mom and half-brothers, she hugged me like we'll never see each other again, promised to help my parents pack my leftover stuff, and went to her university classes this morning with a red blotchy face.

Her despair scares the crap out of me. Although I shouldn't compare Ben and Am's months-long relationship to the night Mike and I spent together, the similarity is there. I need to tell Mike my good news. Which also means I need to tell him I'm leaving.

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have given a second thought to the guy I spent a night with, no matter how good I felt in the morning. Yet, something is different this time. Beyond great sex. Beyond the cute banter and the mesmerizing way Mike's body moves. I pick up my phone for the umpteenth time and flick to the text I sent myself from his phone.

Nothing.

To get my mind off the lack of messages, I turn the oven on and pull the last pizza out of the freezer. The mug with Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer Dad gifted me the Christmas before I left for New York still sits on the counter. I'm not leaving it in storage even if I have to drink out of the festive cup till April. It's better to have Christmasy stuff all year round than not have any at all. When I buy a house of my own, I'll be one of the weirdos who keeps the Christmas tree all year round and decorates it for every holiday throughout the year.

I tuck the bubble-wrapped mug into my backpack and don't allow myself to check my phone anymore. I made my move by giving Mike my number. By all dating rules, the ball is in his court, and I should not be sending him anything even though it's been over twenty-four hours since he left.

The is-he-or-isn't-he-going-to-text-me-back anxiety is wrecking my day. One call, and I will know which way this goes. Maybe I'm too naive. Maybe he doesn't actually want to see me again. With a four-month break between now and when the tour is over, him not being interested might be the best option. I can focus on the tour and on impressing The Whats. But a miniscule, hopeful, ridiculous note beneath my breastbone hints at the music of possibilities, on melodies different from my usual ones. A new style that sprung to life when I was wrapped in Mike, waiting for sleep to come.

When the pre-heating alarm beeps, I stick the pepperoni stuffed-crust pizza into the oven and pull up the Notes app where my packing and to-do lists have check marks next to most items. I add 'packed the Rudolf mug' to the list. An important thing to notate, not the excuse to throw a glance at the notification bar. A tiny message icon hangs next to the IG notification. I do have a text. I grasp the phone tighter and click.

Mike: Good morning.

It's after noon.

Dots dance next to his name and disappear.

I wait for him to continue. I pretend I'm patient, but the swirling in my stomach demands instant results. To hell with the rules of dating. I press call. The phone rings, and rings again, and after the third ring I hit his voicemail. I don't remember the last time I left a voicemail or listened to one. I hang up. What now?

My phone comes alive, and so do I.

"Mike?" I ask as if I don't have his name staring at me from the screen. As if after my call a second ago, this could be a wrong number.

"Can you believe this weather?" He answers as if this is a continuation of a conversation, not a start to a new one. "When can I see you?"

He wants to see me. My fingertips tingle. My stomach switches from swirling to a tornado. I'm back to the pre-crash Angie who worried about boys calling her back, about being nice enough and pretty enough. He wants to see me.

The tug of his want in my chest is sweet, head-spinning, and welcome.

"Are you there?" Short puffs of his breath punctuate the end of his question, like he's running somewhere.

"Mike?" I'm stuck on his name, because I can't decide what to say next, because I don't want the magic to end like Ben and Amelie's did. But we are not them. I let go of the control and allow the words to roll off my tongue. "I'm sorta leaving."

I sit my butt onto the floor between the sink and the oven, lean my back against the lower cabinets, and watch the cheese bubble on top of the pizza.

"Leaving?" A door slams on his end. "Where to?"

"On tour." The tour that could change my life. "It's a last-minute thing. I'll be opening for The Whats."

"That's huge. The Whats. Congratulations." He sounds like he means it. Like he's happy for me.

"Thanks." I linger in this state, where the good news is out and the bad news hasn't caught up yet, living in the blissful moment of only joy. "A great opportunity for me."

"You don't sound too excited."

I wish we were on a video call, so I could see where Mike is, what he's doing, what his reaction is going to be to the words I utter next. "Because I'm flying out tonight."

"Short notice indeed." He doesn't seem to be worried. "Where to?"

"Nashville."

"When are you back?"

"In four months."

"Four— " He coughs. It's not a sickly kind, but the one where the saliva goes the wrong way, and your throat burns as you try to get back to normal breathing. "Months?" he croaks.

"It's all very sudden. I got invited yesterday, and I said yes." I want to spew everything there is to say before he has a chance to make the wrong assumption. "It's an opportunity of a century. I was going to tell you, but then I didn't know if you cared, or if I should even text or call you. I thought, maybe I should wait until I'm back." I know I'm babbling but I can't stop. "I mean, we don't really know each other—"

"Where are you now?"

"My apartment, why?"

"What time is your flight?"

"Six."

"O'Hare?"

"Yes."

"I'll take you. I'm coming over right now." Not a question. A fact. Like he wants to be here. Actually wants to be here and is not trying to do me a favor. Like he cares. "Should be there before two. Even if we leave at four, we'll still have a couple of hours together. I'm not waiting four months to see you again."

"You aren't?" My natural contralto morphs into a countertenor.

"I fucking definitely am not. Unless—" I don't like his pause. I want him to finish the sentence. "Unless I'm wrong, and I've imagined it all."

His statement hangs in the cellular ether between us.

"You haven't." Now I'm grateful we are not on a video call for him to witness the goofy smile that's tugging my lips. I'm back to schoolgirl crush mode and I don't care. "Come. I'll be waiting."

"Good."

My imagination serves me a picture of Mike with an equally goofy smile. Equally crushing on a girl he wants to see.

And I am that girl.

🎼🎵🎶🎙️🎧🎹

The doorbell rings, and I keep persuading myself I have no reason to be anxious. I'm not about to step on an unfamiliar stage or explain to my parents why I'm quitting college. I'm going to hang out with a man I like. For a couple of hours. Before I leave the city. For four months. I shiver. A man I barely know. Goosebumps travel under the soft wool of my sweater. A man I might not ever see again. I rub my hands up and down my arms.

What are we doing exactly?

Mike fills the doorway wearing the same leather jacket and the stupid boots laced over his ankles: my nemeses.

"Come in." I step aside, and he walks in, hands-in-pockets, looking everywhere but at me as if we haven't seen each other naked already.

His head swivels, re-examining my apartment that looks nothing like it did twenty-four hours ago. Boxes are everywhere. Black garbage bags line the hallway. The Christmas tree is in pieces on the floor with a box of the decorations I had to take down two days after I put them up. The case with my keyboard inside blocks half of the doorway into the living room. Piles of clothes litter the remaining floor space. A faint smell of burnt pizza hangs in the air.

"I thought you said four months? This"—he circles the room with his chin—"looks like you're moving out."

"We are." I waver, unsure what his reaction is going to be. If we have to spend time discussing the Ben and Am situation. Best friend vs best friend. I don't want to start a fight. I want to make love. "Amelie's moving to France."

"Right." He doesn't get closer to me, doesn't go for the kiss I've been imagining as part of our reunion. My skin reacts to his nearness by suddenly feeling every loop of my sweater, pretending it's Mike's hands and not the wool touching it.

Mike steps around me. Did I ruin this by talking about my roommate? He navigates between the piles and finds his way into the middle of the living-room. "What's happening to this place?"

"Subletting it till the contract is over. Am has a storage unit. My parents'll come to get my stuff. They're used to packing and unpacking for me."

"Only child?" The sparkle that made me sure he was magic is back.

"How did you guess?"

"Just a hunch." Mike grins and transforms into the guy I was craving all day.

I pull the chopsticks out of the messy bun on my head and watch him watch my hair cascade down my shoulders. The spark in his eyes changes into a smolder I can't be tricking myself into seeing. I shake my head to test the limit of my power over him. "Recognizing yourself in me?"

"Not even close." His voice so low the last syllable is a mere hiss. He clears his throat and points to his chest. "I have a younger brother."

Mike being the eldest tracks. The protector vibe suits him. "You get along?"

"Most of the time. Any more questions for me?"

I purse my lips and tap them with my index finger in pretend-deep thought. "What's your zodiac sign?"

"How should I know?"

An astrology newbie. Ah! This might be the only part of the 'fifty questions about you' dating drill I enjoy.

"Okay, when's your birthday?"

"May fifth."

"Taurus. Witty, charming when you want to, but show the real you only to a select few you trust."

"That was fast." His eyes are now smiling too. "Recognizing yourself in me?"

"Not even close." I throw his words and his grin back at him. "January twenty-third. I'm an Aquarius."

Are we trying to do what people do on their first dates? Not that this is one. I don't know what this is.

"And what should that tell me?" Mike takes off his jacket and places it on one of the columns of boxes. Is he getting warm, or does he feel the same hot bubbles that froth in my diaphragm?

"Creative and an open book. What you see is what you get. Can be stubborn." I move one the poinsettias off the windowsill and onto the black garbage bag on floor by the south-facing window. Mom promised to give them to her neighbors instead of throwing them out.

"You believe in that shit?" Mike takes the other two plants and transfers them next to the one I've just moved.

Time's ticking, and we're just talking.

"Among other things. You don't have to rely on it, nor is it going to predict your future, but I choose to believe there's something intangible in this world: the unknown beyond our wildest imaginings."

"As long as you don't make me participate, you can believe in it all you want. I don't think it's going to hurt anyone." He screws his full lips to the side.

I want to bite them again. I want so many things that require direct contact with Mike but apart from flinging myself onto him, I'm not sure how to bridge the gulf that's been in place since he came.

Mike pinches the bridge of his nose. "How can I help?" He observes me like I'm someone under his care, the lust of our night together nowhere to be seen.

Not what I'm after.

"I don't know." I rub my eyes and give an exasperated sigh. "My suitcases and the keyboard are packed. I have all these clothes"—I point with my foot at the piles on the floor—"I need to donate. I haven't slept all night. We are out of coffee, and after your call, I forgot about the pizza in the oven, so that burnt to a crisp. Just a normal day, basically." I burst into a hysterical laugh that usually precedes tears.

"Got it." He logs into his phone. "You need food and rest." He parks his butt on the couch and pats the cushion to his left for me to join. "D'you have any favorite places nearby that deliver?"

"Kikuya." I sit next to him. "Their sushi's amazing. I can't wait for you to taste it."

Even with two layers of clothes between us, I sense Mike's slightest movements, the slackening on his jaw, the curling of his fingers on his lap.

"I like tasting," he says.

My awareness of him heightens.

I'm starving for his touch. "Sushi or?"

"Both."

Whatever it is that buzzes in the air when we are near resumes its churn.

Maybe I will get to take a bite of Mike today.