Chapter 22

MELODY

I can't sayI'm not disappointed when I stop in front of Aretha's building.

It's not only because of the conversation we just had but also because there are no cars with racing stripes outside.

On top of that, no one follows me, no one calls me, and there are no messages on my phone.

Jax London fell off the face of the earth.

Trying not to think about him, I walk into a store, buy groceries, get home, and cook for myself, which is a rare occurrence.

I usually eat out or order food.

I snooze on the couch after dinner for a fewgoodminutes before the doorbell rings.

I crack an eye open and look at the time.

It's ten thirty.

It's late.

And who the fuck is this?

I don't expect anyone, and people can't get into the building unless someone buzzes them in or they know the passcode.

Well, Jax got in without me buzzing him in.

Someone else must've let him in, or he'd figured out the passcode when I'd put it in.

A sliver of hope pushes me upright. I look around.

The lights are on, quiet music plays, and it smells like freshly cooked food.

I look like shit, with my eyes heavy with sleep and my hair a mess.

"Coming," I bark, not rushing in the slightest.

Hopefully, it's not the landlord again.

He might have a plight of rules, but I have a rule too, no business after nine.

I tuck my T-shirt into my leggings and my feet into my slippers before turning the lights off in the living room and tiptoeing to the window.

My first thought is that whoever is at my door has their car parked outside.

To my disappointment, there's no one. No double parking. No car with the hazard lights on.

It's not him.

It can't be him.

And shame on me for waiting for a sign from him.

The doorbell has gone quiet, but I'm still headed that way.

I peek through the peephole, yet no one's outside.

Cautiously, I open the door and move mygaze down as a letter falls inside.I'm not fond of mysteries, and I hate surprises. Don't people know that?

I pick it up, recognize Melissa's handwriting, and my mood shifts.

Every year, Melissa, Alice, three more friends of ours, and I meet in Manhattan sometime in March.

We bring our spouses or significant others and chat about life and work over food and drinks.

The girls book hotel rooms. And sometimes I stay at the hotel as well.

We graduated from the same college. Alice and I work in finance. Melissa is a lawyer, and Becky, Emma, and Tory own businesses. The three of them live in Boston, while Melissa calls Chicago home.

We're generally good at keeping in touch, but that has changed as they have married, and Alice is about to do the same.

I'm still single.

I study the letter before opening it and retrieving Melissa's invitation.

Our meetup is on March 14th at seven o'clock in a luxurious Midtown Hotel.

My heart sinks at the prospect of showing up with some run-of-the-mill date or worse… With no one.

I could not go.

Yeah. It won't work.

We've been good friends for many years. Not showing up would only bring more attention to my problem.

I crane my neck and peer up and down the corridor.

Why is my letter being delivered to my door?

We all have individual mailboxes in the foyer and usually get our mail without a problem.

The delivery person must've put Melissa's letter in someone else's mailbox. I wonder who that was.

I look at my neighbor's door. Was it Marlowe? Did he get my letter?

It could be. It could also be someone from upstairs.

I step back, close the door, and walk to the living room when my phone rings.

Wow.

What is wrong with people?

I snatch up my cell phone and swipe the screen, not believing my eyes.

"Alice? Is everything all right?"

Noise comes from the other end of the line.

"Alice??"

"Oh. Hi. I'm sorry. Are you here?"

My mouth pulls open.

"Here?" I mumble as the noise intensifies.

"I'm sorry. I can't hear you. Let me go to the restroom,"shesays.

I get nervous as a few moments pass.

The noise subsides as she moves to a quieter area.

"Hi," she says again, panting as if walking briskly. "Are you here?"

I freeze.

Why does she keep asking me that?

"Here? Where exactly are you?"

"We're in a club downtown, celebrating someone's birthday. Wait a second. I need to pee."

She takes care of her business while I slide into an armchair.Water runs in the background before we resume our conversation.

"I'm sorry. I thought you were coming too."

"Why would I be there when you're celebrating someone's birthday? I don't get it."

"Oh, it's not that. Thomas is at a table, waiting for someone, and I thought it was you."

This is what I hate about this.

No matter how much you want or don't want someone and how little they matter to you, this never feels right.

"It's not me," I say."He's not waiting for me."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you two were still seeing each other."

"Yeah. No… Apparently, we're no longer seeing each other."

Finding from her that he is waiting for someone else is not exactly ideal.

"Are you sure he's waiting for a woman?" I ask.

"No, but I can go and check. Wait… He is dressed to the nines and has a cellophane-wrapped rose on the table."

"Yes. He is waiting for a woman."

Can I blame him?

No, I can't.

And yes. I can.

Why couldn't he just talk to me?

Because nobody likes telling it to your face.

"It doesn't matter," I say before she speaks again.

"She's here," she mutters. "Oh."

"What?"

"She looks like a professional."

"As in a banker?"

‘She's not exactly what I'd call a banker if youget my drift. I can't get close to them. It's chaos over there."

"You mean a hooker?"

"Something like that."

I suck in a strained breath.

It makes sense. Of course it does. He takes care of his needs, even if it means paying someone.

He's probably done it all this time, and now he needshermore than ever.

He has an erectile problem, and she knows how to handle this type of situation.

He won't see me again.

His brain will always associate me with a flaccid penis.

Why do I even have to think about this?

"Good for him," I say.

"Seriously?"

"We didn't click anyway."

She doesn't comment.

"Oh, by the way. And this has nothing to do with Thomas. I received Melissa's card. The meeting is on March 14th. It falls on a Friday."

She couldn't be more ecstatic.

"Woohoo. I can't wait."

I smile.

"You're going, right?" she says.

"I don't know."

"You're not serious now."

"It's no longer the babes' club. Now you're all married."

"No, we're not. And it's not about that."

Oh, yes, it is. Our meetings have gone from the girls" nights out to the quiet conversations about money, real estate, and schools.

"Please don't do this to us."

Even she uses the term ‘us" as in ‘them… and me.'

"I won't. I'll be there," I say, struggling to conceal my resentment.

MELODY

Thursday Morning

Spring is here,clouds of petals swirling in the air under a bright sun.

I"m out jogging with my long hair pulled into a bouncy ponytail, dark sunglasses on, and white and gray athletic gear molded on my body.

Sweat covers my skin while my pulse matches the rhythmic tapping of my shoes against the sidewalk.

I careen onto my street, scanning the area.

It's been three days since I started paying more attention to my surroundings, hoping to see his car.

The good thing is that I no longer check my phone.

I'm not a phone person, to begin with, and I'm pretty comfortable with the idea that once a person fails to get in touch with me within twenty-four hours, there is no point in waiting for their call anymore.

My pulse spikes when I think about my session tonight. Unless Jax London requested a different time slot––I doubt Aretha has anything available––I might run into him this evening.

If he shows up.

Too many ifs.

He clearly doesn"t want to see me if he moves his therapy session to a different day.

Ghosted and rejected. I'm getting good at this.

I barely roll my eyes when footsteps ring behind me, approaching me quickly. I yank my earbuds off and look over my shoulder. One can never be too cautious.

Wearing sunglasses like me, Marlowe closes the distance between us. He wears shorts, a dampT-shirtclinging to his torso.

"First time jogging?" he asks, no smile on his face, his eyes concealed behind his sunglasses.

"It's my first time this month. How about you? I thought you were going to the gym around the corner."

"I'm doing both," he says, slowing down as we inch closer to our building.

Eventually we both stop running and walk to catch our breath.

"How do you like the area?" he asks as our conversation quickly goes nowhere.

"I have nothing against it," I say, averting my gaze, not ready to share that I'm looking for a new apartment.

"What about you? Planning to stay here for a while?"

"No. Not really… But it's convenient for me right now,"hesays.

We reach the stairs, and I get distracted as a car moves past us.

"Did you get your letter?" he asks as I remove my sunglasses and look in the distance.

I can't read the plate number, but that car looks like Jax's.

"Melody?"

The man's voice jerks me out of my head. I focus on him, pleasantly surprised that he remembered my name and uttered it with a shred of humanity.

I take a better look at Marlowe.

"What letter?" I ask, thinking that maybe the landlord had stuffed some information I don"t know about into our mailboxes.

He takes off his glasses and gestures to the entrance.

He must be time-pressed.I know I am. I should be.

"The one I got by mistake," he says as we climb the stairs.

"Oh, that letter? Yes, I got it. I didn't know it was you," I murmur while he holds the door for me.

We enter the hallway, and soon after, we stop as are supposed to go our separate ways.

"Thank you," I say, giving him a wry smile. "For the letter," I add.

"Oh. Sure. No problem," he says curtly.

I expect him to move away, yet he lingers, hesitant.

I know that kind of hesitation. It's about the only time men hesitate. When they are not sure whether they want you or not, whether to ask you out or not.

At least, that's the case with him.

"I don't know how your schedule looks, but would you like to have drinks with me next week? We can chat more," he says seriously before checking the time on his watch.

It's a clever move.

He doesn't ask me out, yet he's offered me a weekday time slot, perhaps to talk about work.

I ponder for a moment.

Do I want to know more about Marlowe, who seems to be another Thomas, although less courteous?

"Do you have a place in mind?" I murmur, convinced he's talking about drinks at a bar or a restaurant.

"My place," he says. "Wednesday at seven. See you then?" he tosses at me, pivoting toward his apartment.

"Uh. Okay. Sure," I say, unsure of anything, especially walking into this man's apartment.