In Pursuit (3 page)

She shuts the door with a light bang behind her.

Now that the room is silent and I have some privacy, I open the front compartment of my carry-on bag. Inside is a four by six wooden frame painted white. The frame holds a photograph of my pregnant mother while my father grins down at her adoringly. My dad’s hand gently covers my mom’s expanded stomach. He looks proud and she looks content. I wish I knew these people, but I don’t. Dad’s a serious man, rarely giving me much affection, unless it was praise for a good report card.

In my own life, I don’t think I have ever experienced the type of merriment captured in this photograph. That’s what this opportunity in Chicago reduces down to, the chance to pursue my own piece of delight.

T
he gentle whirr of a ceiling fan wakes me on Sunday morning. For a moment, I stare at the white sheets in confusion. I own blue bedding – and then I smile to myself. I’m in Claire’s luxurious pad, my new home.

I stretch out underneath the comfy sheets. I’ve only designed rooms as comfortable and lush as this one, never experienced it firsthand. Warm sunshine peeks between the sheer curtains on the oversized windows. Last night, I left the window open so I could feel the sun on my skin when I woke up. I’m rewarded with a cheerful day outside. I feel especially lucky today, with my friendly, albeit dramatic, roommate, stellar living conditions and prospective client. I’m not sure how this experience could get much better.

Before she left for the evening, Claire gave me a brief walking tour of the neighborhood. Now, I can easily find Whole Foods and the closest coffee shop. Truth be told, I knew where those things were long before I got here. I studied a map of Chicago religiously for three straight weeks before I departed Arlington. So without her help, I already knew where I could find groceries this morning to make breakfast for my roommate. After the tour, Claire and I toasted to my arrival in Chicago with a shot of tequila.
Just to get the night started,
she said with her cheeky grin.

Quickly, I get ready in a simple turquoise tank dress. Slight ruching shows off my waist, and a playful skirt swirls around my hips. I wash my face, twist my hair into a loose braid, and then quietly make my way out of the condo. I want to thank Claire for being so welcoming, and a hearty breakfast seems like a natural first step.

In the lobby I see an attractive young man behind the desk. I push away at the call of shyness when I pause in front of him.

“Hi, I just wanted to introduce myself.” I give him a friendly smile and extend my hand. “I’m Eddie Neff, I just moved in with Claire up in ten-oh-one.”

He takes my hand in his own and gives a brief squeeze. “Nice to meet you, Eddie, girl. I’m Wallace, but I’m sure Claire has told you about me.”

His eyebrows raise, and I immediately place him as the employee that allegedly got a blow-job underneath the very desk that he stands behind.

I feel my cheeks darken and I take a step backward.
I don’t want to get involved with that kind of drama on my second day here.

“Yes, I think so. Anyway, it was great to meet you. I’ll see you around!” With a short wave over my shoulder, I depart outside in the humid summer day. The thick air feels nothing like the DC swamp, but it’s certainly sticky. Where is that wind that everyone keeps talking about?

As I make my way toward the grocer, I feel calm, like a part deep inside of me knows that I made the right decision.

I’m analyzing six varieties of oatmeal in the narrow grocery aisle, when a voice next to me interrupts, saying, “Who can decide when there are so many choices?”

My gaze meets friendly, sage green eyes and a hearty smile. He’s several inches taller than me and has neatly organized dark chocolate hair, cropped close on the sides and longer on top. Wearing a pair of trim chinos and a tight black t-shirt, he is the poster child for summer chic.

His friendliness makes me feel comfortable. “That’s why it’s taking me so long to buy just a few things. I don’t know what made me think I could survive this decision on my own.”

“Welcome to the city, newbie.”

 “How could you tell?”

He points to the reusable grocery bag on my shoulder. It says
DC Proud.

“You caught me,” I admit. “Not very stealth.”

“It’s endearing.”

The stranger leans past me and grabs the same bag of oatmeal I’m currently clutching. “You’ve got the best one in your hands already. Trust your instincts and stick with it.”

Then he’s off, leisurely strolling down the aisle, as though he makes conversation like this all the time.
He probably does
, I tell myself, feeling that now familiar grin splitting my lips.

Twenty minutes later, I’m relieved to see Wallace occupied with charming an older couple and their white standard poodle. In one hand, I’m holding a latte, and in the other a heavy bag of ingredients. Normally, I wouldn’t shop at such an expensive store, but today I made an exception to treat Claire.

I juggle the bag and my coffee into our apartment without drama. I’m unloading my purchases, when I hear what sounds like a man’s voice. Maybe Claire brought her fun time fuck home last night? I really want to eavesdrop, but I focus on the task at hand and begin mixing oats, eggs and cottage cheese.

Once I was old enough, Dad passed off the responsibility of cooking to me. It’s become a casual hobby, especially cooking healthy. Each year, I would sneak into my father’s office to read the report from a doctor in his annual physical. His cholesterol is always floating up too high, so I would find creative ways to make him his favorite foods with healthy substitutes. I don’t think Claire and her willowy figure will mind the lower fat food.

This recipe is familiar, but I pull up the instructions on my phone as a guide to remind me the exact amount of oats.

“You need to grow the fuck up, Claire!” A booming voice shouts suddenly, and I drop the spoon I’m using to stir, splattering myself with a tiny bit of batter.
No one ever said you weren’t a klutz,
I remind myself wryly, before wondering who’s fighting with Claire.

Her voice is muffled, but I do catch one word, spat sarcastically, “Harry.”

A door is flung open, and then, “I can’t keep cleaning up your messes, little sister. You have to stop pulling this shit.”

“Get out! I don’t need someone like
you
trying to take care of me.”
Like you?
That doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement for what sounds like her older brother. Odd, considering Claire only had positive things to say about him – including an open invitation to his private deck.

Pounding footsteps stomp toward the kitchen and I keep my eyes trained on the batter I’m stirring.

“Who the FUCK are you?” His voice roars behind me and I jump around like a scared rabbit. It’s the glorious specimen from the photo in the hallway. But the real life image easily surpasses the picture, despite his scowl. He’s angry, his dark gray eyes crackle with fury.

The first word I think to describe him, after intense, is tall. If I felt small next to Claire, I’m your average insect next to this guy, who towers above me behind the other side of the kitchen counter. His once long dark blond hair is buzzed super short. Underneath his gray t-shirt are muscles so chiseled, he looks like he is a real life sculpture from Ancient Greece. Minus the small penis, because if his overall size is any indicator, then this guy is huge. Everywhere.

The thought shocks me.
Sex, at a time like this?

He has a strong jawline and high cheekbones. I could not have designed a better looking man if I was granted access to the DNA. As pissed as he looks, this Harry is sizzling hot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy with that kind of muscle definition up close. Normally I’m shy, but now I feel downright jittery.

“Oh, um, hi. I’m -”

I feel the weight in my hand redistribute and look down to see batter sliding off the spoon I’m holding on my new dress. Great.

“Don’t scare the little mouse, Harry.” Claire appears at his side, smiling coyly. Her tone drips with insincerity.

Little mouse?

“Eddie. My new roommate.” Her gray eyes show disdain.

I'm not sure if her emotions are targeted at me or her older brother, so I keep quiet.

“Sarah Mendel sent her my way, and she is just about the sweetest little mouse I’ve ever met.”

There’s that pet name again. It’s hard to say which way the connotation swings – positive or negative. By the smug expression on her face, I struggle to think Claire’s
not
being
condescending to me.

The grim, Thor-with-a-buzz-cut lookalike doesn’t respond, just passes stern glares between Claire and me. Tension vibrates between the three of us, a gnawing glacier of anxiety growing inside nearly makes me shudder.

Claire interrupts the hostile temperament. “What are ya cooking?” She taps her brother patronizingly on the shoulder, and moves around the granite counter to join me.

Harry – he definitely doesn’t look like a Harry – makes a sound that is reminiscent of a growl, and he stomps out of the apartment without a backward glance. The door slams so hard, I wonder if it has fallen off its hinges. I stare at Claire with a wide-open mouth and then she giggles.

“Harry ̶ that’s
Harris
to you, only I’m allowed to call him Harry ̶ has a huge stick up his ass. Sorry you had to witness that. Unfortunately it happens somewhat regularly. Brothers and sisters, right?”

“I, I wouldn’t know,” I stammer. “Only child and all.”

She sticks a finger in my batter and then pulls it out, sucking on it playfully. “It’s mine and Harris’ normal behavior, so get used to it. Yummy! What are we eating?”

There isn’t enough time for me to analyze her comment, but her words don’t pacify my edginess.

“Blueberry oatmeal pancakes and turkey bacon. I was going for the healthy type of thing.” My words fall flat, my earlier good mood disappearing.

My heart has taken on a frantic beat at the argument I just witnessed. To hide my reaction, I turn away from Claire to take a few calming breaths. She doesn’t appear to be studying me, so I busy myself with reading the recipe on my phone, even though I’ve made these at least ten times, so I don’t need the help.

Angry people make me feel overwhelmed. My dad spent all of his time surrounded by turmoil when he was at work, so he demanded that our home be a calm and soothing place. I was never a problem child and didn’t argue with him; I enjoy the serenity of silence. Overhearing Claire and her brother fight admittedly unnerved me, because I’ve never lived in a place where people yelled. My dad and I prefer to brush things aside and avoid discussing them.

One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand…
I count inside my head to sooth my jangled nerves. It’s a trick my grandmother taught me when I was younger and I still use it in times of distress.

When I feel ready to think about the situation, I force myself to believe that there is no need to stress. I’ve never had a sibling, let alone a roommate, so who I am to say what is normal? I decide then and there not to judge Claire or her sexy brother.