Switch. Megan Hart
my revenge was far-flung and I was still awake. I stretched and sat up, waiting for the rush and boil of acid stomach or the pound of a headache, but aside from a gnawing hunger, I felt all right. At least until I heard the muted beep from my cell phone, which I’d left abandoned in my sparkly purse under the pile of my discarded clothes. I had to dig past my Steve Madden pumps to reach it.
Five missed calls.
Five? Crap. I thumbed the keypad to check out the numbers. I had voice mails, too, though without dialing in I couldn’t tell how many. Kira had called me around 4:00 a.m. but hadn’t left a message. That could be good or bad, depending. One was an old call from my mother I hadn’t deleted. The other three were from Austin.
Triple crap.
The voice mails were from him, too, half an hour apart. The first two were brief “when are you going to get here?” messages. The last one had come in around six-fifteen, after I’d already gone to bed. It turned the corners of my mouth down.
“Look, I know I’ve been an asshole to you in the past.” Then fifteen seconds of awkward silence, punctuated only by the soft in-out of his breathing. “I’m sorry. I just…I was a fuckwad, and I’m sorry. Call me, okay? Please.”
A few more seconds of silence and he added, “Please.”
Is there anything more simultaneously pathetic and arousing than a pleading man?
I couldn’t bring myself to delete that message. I thought I might want to listen to it a couple-twenty more times. I thought I might want to get that statement, “Sorry, I’m a fuckwad.—Austin Miller” embroidered on a tea towel and wipe my hands with it.
It was the only time Austin had ever apologized to me for anything he’d ever done. I wasn’t sure it meant anything now. Not after all this time had passed.
I didn’t delete the message, but I didn’t call him back, either. Instead, I hauled my sorry ass out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom where I peed for what felt like an hour and brushed my teeth and pulled my hair on top of my head in a messy ponytail.
I wanted to go back to sleep, but I knew better than to expect to be able to. I was up for the day now. My stomach rumbled and I took my last two slices of wheat bread from the fridge, where I kept it to prevent mold, and popped them into my toaster oven. I needed to hit the grocery store in the worst way, though the state of my finances meant it would be another week of on-sale tuna and ramen noodles rather than steak and lobster. Ah, well. There was nothing new about that. I’d grown up thinking Kraft shells and cheese was gourmet fare.
While my toast browned, I sifted through the pile of junk mail I’d brought in the night before. I tossed aside a few catalogs addressed to the former tenant. I thought of the note I’d had yesterday, the beautiful paper and the words written in that fine hand. What had it said to do? Make a list of flaws and strengths? I thought of it as I ate my toast dry because I had no butter or jam.
You will write a list of ten. Five flaws. Five strengths. Deliver them promptly…
From the junk drawer next to my fridge I pulled a yellow legal pad and a stub of a pencil with a point rubbed to softness by the creation of many lists. Chore lists, mostly, or grocery. I’d never used it to detail my flaws and strengths.
I tapped the pencil against my lips as I thought.
Proud
Stubborn
Independent
Smart
Curious
Determined
Conscientious
That was it. As far as lists went, it didn’t feel complete, but I couldn’t think of more than that. So much for the ten, I thought as I put away the pen and paper.
And the real question was, which had I written? Flaws or strengths? Couldn’t they sometimes be both?
I looked again at the tablet on the table. It had made me think hard about myself, though it hadn’t been meant for me. I hoped the person it was meant for had better luck.
Chapter 06
I finished my shopping just before noon. I had only two small bags of groceries, the bare minimum to get me through until payday. I’d left a few bucks in my wallet on purpose, though, for one reason. I didn’t need a large coffee with extra cream and a gooey cinnamon bun, but I wanted them.
Located in the building adjoining Riverview Manor, the Morningstar Mocha teemed with people out for a caffeine fix. A few joggers, bundled against the cold, filled travel mugs at the small stand in the corner holding the sweetener packets and jugs of milk and bins of creamer containers. And in the corner, my corner, the seat I took because it was in the smallest table and I was usually alone, sat my elevator eye-fucking buddy, Mr. Mystery.
Was it synchronicity? Or serendipity? His wasn’t the only familiar face there. I spied a few people from my building, one or two I recognized as Mocha regulars, and of course I knew the girl behind the counter. Her name was Brandy, and you couldn’t miss her. She chewed gum like cud.
I deliberately tried not to stare at him while I ordered my coffee and bun, but he was still there by the time they arrived. Still there when I’d dumped my mug full of sugar and cream. He wore a white, long-sleeved shirt beneath a black concert T-shirt and worn jeans that suited him nicely. His hair looked as if he’d run a hand through it a few times or just rolled out of bed. He had a large mug in front of him, still steaming, and a plate with the remains of a bagel slathered with cream cheese and lox. He was staring out the glass onto the street, empty but for the occasional weekend-traffic car cruising slowly past. In front of him sat a pad of legal-size paper, white not yellow, and in his left hand he held a thick-barreled pen. A worn leather bag rested at his feet as faithful as a hound.
The lighting inside the Mocha was golden and indirect, but late-winter bright sunshine shafted through the plate-glass window and across his face. I wanted to stare and drink in the fine-featured grace of him. The casual beauty. The crooked twist of his mouth as he bit down on his lip in concentration, the furrow of his brow. The way his hand curled around the pen caressing the paper.
Fortunately for me, he was still staring out the window, absently doodling, when two people in matching tracksuits slammed into me and knocked my coffee and cinnamon bun all over a couple, who looked as if they hadn’t yet gone to bed, sitting at the table in front of me.
The fitness twins were very kind. They bought me new coffee and pastry and replaced the party-kids’ bagels, soaked through by my spilled drink. They did it all with a fanfare that smacked a bit of “look at me, what a good person I am,” but they did it. I didn’t dare look at the man by the window until all the fuss and feathers had died down. When I did, finally, my fresh mug was burning my palm and my eyes had blurred from the dip in my blood sugar. I didn’t want to shove the entire bun into my mouth, but a dainty nibble wasn’t going to get the goods down my throat and into my stomach fast enough.
He glanced over at me as I was licking icing off my mouth. He smiled. I paused, coffee halfway to my mouth, and smiled back.
I thought for sure he’d say hello, but maybe without the allure of my fuck-me pumps all he could manage was the grin. Maybe he didn’t recognize me as the woman from the elevator. Or more likely, he didn’t care.
He got up, papers and pen already tucked away in his bag, garbage cleared from the table. He slung his arms into a plaid flannel shirt I hadn’t noticed hanging on the back of his chair and eased the strap of his leather bag over one shoulder. He left the Morningstar Mocha without a backward glance, which allowed me to stare after him without fear of being caught.
He’d left a crumpled discard to the window side of his chair, on the floor. With a quick glance around the now-empty coffee shop to see if anyone would notice me being a total snoop,