Every Breath You Take (8 page)

Out of the corner of her eye, Natalie could see a broad smile stretch across Jason’s face, which made her heart leap. It mattered to him what her friends thought of him. Because it was important to her.

“I told you that you didn’t have anything to worry about.”

“I know.”

He headed toward Lake Shore Drive and kissed her hand. “See? You just need to trust me.”

Man, you got that bitch eating out of your hand. You said she’s smiling and whatnot during your sessions? Yeah, I’m telling you, it’s a matter of time before they spring your ass. And that was good, letting them do that electroshock therapy on you. That was a nice touch. Really make them think you’re serious. I mean, it was a risk, ’cause, you know, you could have wound up with that, what is it, amnesia or something, make you forget every damn thing, and you don’t want that.

“Now, when you get out of here, they gonna make you sign all these papers and give you all these referrals and instructions and whatnot. Bump all that. Just like before, you tell them whatever it is they want to hear. I mean, it will be kind of hard ’cause you got to go home with your folks, but what they gonna do? They can’t keep you locked up at home. I mean, you ain’t got one of them uh, uh, uh, ankle monitors or nothing on you. So, you know, just play along for a little while, be real, what they call it, contrite. Humble and all that shit.”

Flynn could be running the place, he knew so much about how to get over. He was shocked to learn that Flynn was in voluntarily. Not like him. They’d forced him to come here after that night, said that was the best place for him. Said he was mentally ill. Said jail was no place for him.

That last part was true enough. Though being in here, away from her, was like a prison.

But he’d be free soon. Sort of. He still had to contend with his parents and them watching him. Still, it would give him the time he needed to prepare himself. He’d fool them into thinking he had a whole new lease on life or something like that. That he was making positive changes for the better. Yeah, he could spew whatever he had to in order to make them think he was “cured.”

The most important thing was the transformation. He was already the man he knew she needed. Now, he just had to become the man he knew she wanted.

And that would take time.

“O
pen wide.”

They both tried to keep straight faces as he held a lumpy chocolate truffle to her lips.

“You really want me to eat that?” she asked.

“I mean, yeah, it
looks
ridiculous, but it’s good. Promise.”

Keeping her eyes locked on his, Natalie let her mouth drop open a little as Jason poked the truffle inside. A little ribbon of Grand Marnier dribbled out of one corner as she bit down, and they both laughed as he dabbed her mouth with a napkin. She plunked her hand into her chin and studied him.

“You’re really full of surprises.”

“That’s a bad thing?”

“You know, I’m learning that it isn’t,” she said. “I have to ask, though. How on earth did you come up with a chocolate-making class of all things?”

“You’re gonna laugh,” he chuckled as he licked a smear of chocolate from his thumb.

“Try me.”

“It was my brother-in-law.”

“What?”

“So, I guess my sister put him on notice that he gives terrible gifts. Like, really bad. Even I was like, man, you’ve got to do better and go further. I’m talking socks, waffle makers, shit like that.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, so anyway, I had called him about these Cubs tickets for next season, and he’s like, ‘sorry I missed your call, we were making chocolate last night.’ Honestly, I laughed at first. Then I thought about it and was like, you know, that’s not half bad.” He leaned over with another truffle for her to sample. “You had fun tonight. I could tell. You keep loosening up more and more.”

“Am I really that uptight?”

“A little.”

“Well, thank you for furthering my loosening up education,” she said, leaning over to kiss him. “And yes, the class was so much fun. I absolutely loved it.”

“I love you.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. I said I love you.”

It was too much; she burst into tears. Words she never thought she would hear from a man. Words she fantasized hearing from
this
man. Here. Now.

A sliver of snot escaped from her nose, and she frantically tried to sop it up with the heels of her hands. “Oh my God. . . I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He handed her a bunch of paper towels from the kitchen. “I didn’t think I’d get this reaction.”

She dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. “Do you know you’re like the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Ever
? I never in a million years. . .” she shook her head.

“I’ve been wanting to say it for a while—okay, day one if I’m being honest, but I just—” he shrugged. “I mean, I can’t say it any simpler than that. I love you. So much. You have no idea.”

“Me too,” she whispered.

He laughed. “Is this gonna be like a Patrick Swayze thing where she says ‘I love you’ and he says ‘ditto,’ but you never actually
say
it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Wow. Yet another movie to add to the pile.”

“I love you. Love, love, love,” she said, blotting her eyes again and laughing.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about, Scotty,” he winked. “Come on. Let’s have a little more wine, a little chocolate, and then I’m gonna head home.”

“You don’t have to. What I mean is . . . stay.”

“Baby,” he whispered. “Tomorrow is Thursday and the first time I make love to you, I’m not gonna let something like having to get up and go to work stop me.”

Natalie melted . . . just like the chocolate.

H
e stood on the sidewalk staring up at the windows of her building.

Her departure for the steel and glass of this high-rise building from the wooden quaintness of her last apartment had saddened and angered him. There, he’d been able to be close to her, watch her, learn her secrets, perfect the—at that time—hazy details of his plan.

She was living in a ramshackle three-flat in Wrigleyville, one of those rambling old buildings outfitted with a sprawling maze of rooms, cracking pink bathroom tiles, squealing wooden floors, and back doors that with the rise in summer’s humidity were forever swelling against their weak, helpless frames. It was one of those buildings where “location” not “luxury” was the major selling point, given its proximity to the vine-covered brick of Wrigley Field, abundant public transportation, and equal measure of trendy boutiques and bars awash in beer and the crackle of broken peanut shells beneath your feet seven nights a week.

Like most people, she was an extreme creature of habit. She woke up at five and every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, went for a run before spooning gloppy strawberry yogurt into her mouth as she scurried to catch the Red Line at Addison a few blocks away. She was usually in the office every morning by eight and more often than not hurrying into a cab once it got past eight in the evening. A lot of times, she went to events related to her job: parties, receptions, dinners. Sometimes, she would come straight back to the office afterward. Sometimes, she went out after work with co-workers, which allowed him to slink unnoticed into a dark corner of a bar and just watch her. She spent at least one day of the weekend working and, without fail, when she was done, she went out with those two girls she liked to hang around with.

And every day, he was there, sitting on the bus-stop bench waiting for a bus he would never board. All so he could watch and learn.

Until one day, it had no longer been enough. He needed to get closer. Needed to feel her. Needed more.

Getting in had almost been a joke. An air conditioner hung over the ledge of her bedroom window, which was near the back stairs. He’d been able to kick it in, wincing a bit as it crashed against the floor, comforted only by the fact that he knew the neighbors were at work, saving him from the worry of some hysterical female creeping up the stairs to swing a bat at his head or the cops storming in to interrupt him.

Standing in her bedroom had sent chills through him. Initially, all he
could
do was stand there, turning around over and over, soaking in the details of her room like a blind man who’d finally been granted sight, the smile he’d been holding in for so long finally bursting forth. He went to her dresser to fondle each bottle of perfume, jealous of the droplets sliding down her skin, nestling into the sweet, hidden crevices. Opening her dresser drawers had been an equally heady experience, particularly when he came to her underwear. He wept as his fingers swept across those fine threads, his face buried into the pile he’d lifted out with his hands, the shards of lace dripping from his fingers. It was the most delicious smell in the world to him. He waded into her closet, letting her clothes drape across him, luxuriating in the feel of the silks, cottons, and wools beneath his fingers, once again allowing his imagination to run away with him as he thought about the hem of a dress sliding down her breasts as it dropped from her head and down to her legs, of pants, jeans, and summertime shorts hugging her thighs and crotch.

He continued his journey across her apartment, impressed with how neat she was: no teetering towers of magazines or stacks of mail ready to cascade from a counter or coffee table, no overflowing wastebaskets impatient to be relieved of their burden. Even the peeling linoleum countertops were free of crumbs and sticky juice rings. Her refrigerator was stocked with strawberry yogurt, bottled water, and enough Lean Cuisines to supply a supermarket.

He let his eyes linger over the photographs in her living room, the framed, glossy squares brimming with the smiling faces of friends—no family, of course. He palmed the books on her bookshelves, featherweight tomes about succeeding in business and living your best life. She didn’t seem to read many, what his mama used to call, supermarket novels, bursting with heaving bosoms and glistening, muscular chests. All her fiction tended toward serious, highbrow works teeming with critical acclaim and shiny gold stamps denoting awards of some sort. She was always so serious. He’d have to help her with that.

He used her toothbrush to brush the morning coffee from his breath, closing his eyes as the bristles tickled his gums and scraped against his tongue. He was delighted to find a silky pink bathrobe hanging on a hook on the back of the bathroom door. He stripped down until he was naked, already bulging and ready to pop. Once he slid between the cool, soft cotton of her bed, whatever tension or nerves strumming through him released the minute he felt those sheets swirl around him. He held her pillows to him, imagining it was her as he inhaled the scent of roses, winding her bathrobe around him as he relieved himself in a matter of moments, not needing much stimulation, as he was already skimming the clouds. He kept stroking and relieving himself, careful not to spill any on the sheets. He lost count after the fourth time, so dazed and drunk on the proximity to everything that was in proximity to her.

Finally, as late afternoon began to cast shadows across those creaky wooden floors, he’d reluctantly torn himself from her bed and straightened up after himself before going home, so excited he could barely stand it.

Over the next few months, he’d gone in a few more times, having to restrain himself from going in every day as he wanted. He didn’t want to tip her off. Then, out of the blue one day, she moved, cutting him off, leaving him to adjust to a whole new routine, leaving him without access. He used to wonder . . . did she know? Is that why she left? Running away yet again.

It stung.

He was back to wondering. Waiting. He sat down on the bench, still looking up at her building, thinking about what she was doing right now.

N
atalie’s hands were sweaty as she gripped the now grubby paper handles of the shopping bag that had been burning a hole in her hand the entire walk from Water Tower to her apartment.

Then again, what was inside the bag had been burning a hole in her mind for the better part of the last month.

Jason. She would sometimes look at him a little nonplussed, a little afraid, expecting a calamity to intrude upon his latest romantic overture. True to his word, he was wooing her, lavishing her with attention and affection and himself. Since the chocolate-making class, he’d sent flowers to her office and coaxed her into renting a bicycle built for two for a bike-riding debacle down the lakefront one Sunday afternoon, which left her with a skinned knee and both of them smeared with needles of grass and streaks of mud and quaking with uncontrollable laughter the whole time. He packed picnic lunches for the park, invited her to his place at least three times a week for gourmet meals he whipped up himself, and called her for deep, probing phone conversations that sometimes tiptoed into the waning hours of the day.

Before long came the “meeting of his friends,” the knobby-kneed boys with crusty snot crawling out of their noses, according to the discolored old photographs posted on Jason’s Facebook page. She’d never bothered getting a Facebook page—she didn’t see the point—though it did thrill her more than a little all the times he showed her the pictures he posted of the two of them, further solidifying their “coupledom.” He’d roughhoused with those boys as a kid and they’d grown up to be his trusted confidantes: Kevin, the lawyer and perennial bachelor; Chuck, an appliance store manager married with four kids; Pete, the mechanic who Jason said always seemed to drink a little more than the rest of them, who had three kids by two different ex-girlfriends and lived with his mother; and Ollie, the roly-poly accountant with an equally hefty wife and preteen son. They had gathered in the back room of a favorite restaurant to celebrate the roly-poly accountant and his wife’s joint birthday party, and Jason reported later she’d been given an enthusiastic thumbs-up from the whole gang.