Far From Normal

by Becky Wallace

  I take far too long getting ready and can’t decide if I should wear something out of Emma’s closet or something that I packed. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard to be professional or sexy. I want to hit that narrow gap between I always dress like this and I always look good. Finally, I decide on a black cold-shoulder blouse of Em’s and a pair of white shorts.

  And then I sit on the front porch of the Belden-Stratford for twenty minutes.

  “It’s probably just traffic,” Doorman Kevin says, checking his watch too. “Did you text him?”

  “I am now.”

  I wait twenty more minutes, then gather my bags off the front stairs.

  Kevin gives me a tight-lipped frown. “He’ll have a good excuse.”

  Not to return my text or answer any of my calls? Doubtful. “Let’s hope, Kevin.”

  He holds open the gold-framed glass door so I can slide through, feeling more than the weight of the bags dragging me down. I ignore Jan’s closed-lipped smile and hold my key-pass toward the electronic lock.

  “Madeline!”

  I turn to find Gabe half jogging across the lobby toward me. “I’m sorry I was late.” He whisks the bag out of my hand. “Let’s get going.”

  A part of me wants to let him walk away, but I’m at his mercy for the footage. I’m not going to let my anger—and slightly injured feelings—stand in the way of doing my job, so I trail him out of the building. He’s a troubled soccer star; I’m an intern. I shouldn’t be surprised he doesn’t value my time.

  Not that it bothers me any less.

  Kevin is waiting by the still-running Ferrari, expression shifting to relief when Gabe and I trot back.

  “Good luck, Miss,” he says as I climb in the car.

  I don’t know why I need luck, but I say thanks anyway.

  Leaning against the car door, I look out the passenger window as Gabe pulls out of the Belden-Stratford. He drives with one hand, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel to some unheard beat.

  Eventually, he clears his throat. “Are you going to ask me why I was late?”

  I want to, but I won’t. “Nope.”

  “Are you doing the one-word thing again?”

  “No.” I mean, I just did, but it wasn’t intentional.

  He chuckles softly. “You seem upset. Are you mad at me?”

  “I’m not.” There. Two words. And a total lie. Of course, I’m mad. I waited for him for an hour, and he didn’t bother to call. But it’s more than just being late. I know my job is to help him develop a public persona, but I’m not sure when he’s being real and when he’s camera ready. Is he the grouchy hoodie-wearing soccer star or the flirty guy from Moretti’s?

  “I don’t believe you,” he says.

  I use his shrug. Let him translate that.

  Neither of us speak until we’re crossing the Chicago River. He clears his throat. “Did you know Chicago is haunted?”

  “What?” I turn toward him, face scrunching at this sudden, random piece of information.

  “Most of the old European cities are too, but I didn’t know Chicago had as much history.”

  “You mean from the Chicago Fire?”

  “Not only that. There are a lot more stories that I learned about on a Ghost Tour—”

  “On a what?”

  I didn’t think it was possible for Gabriel Fortunato to blush. His shoulders lift toward his ears in a sheepish shrug. “I like history and I was bored last night. They had tickets available.”

  “Wait. You went on a Ghost Tour last night? Is that why you were late today?” I completely ignore the information about him being bored. Surely, he could find someone to hang out with. “Because you spent all night hunting ghosts?”

  “No.” He shakes his head once. “I was late because my sister had my car.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Yeah. Iliana? You met her at my apartment the other day? She made you coffee.”

  “That was your sister?” The woman at his apartment looked nothing like the little girl in the picture in his file. Puberty was kind to someone.

  “Wait …” A hint of humor bleeds into his voice. “Who did you think she was?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” If I blow by this subject, I won’t have to explain that I thought Bar Girl was a girlfriend or hookup or something else. “Was your phone dead or broken or lost? Or did you lose my number? Or—”

  “Dio, stop! I’m sorry, okay? Iliana came home later than she was supposed to, and we argued, and I forgot my phone and didn’t have the address, so I had to drive over to Moretti’s so that I could try to remember which hotel you lived in.”

  “You couldn’t have just typed in ‘hotels near Lincoln Park Zoo?’” I lean over and tap on the GPS installed in the console. Four options come up. “Oh.”

  “I wasn’t sure which one it was.” His voice is contrite, and both his hands clench the steering wheel. “I really was trying to get there on time. Everything seemed to work against me today.”

  In other words, he had a day similar to so many of mine. No matter how much I’ve prepped, how much I’ve tried to do all the right things, something always goes wrong. Which is why I’m in this car in the first place. Despite my very best efforts, the universe is always working against me.

  The silence is thick enough to slice into pieces and eat alongside my guilt. “Sorry I accused you of sleeping all day,” I say softly.

  “Fa niente.” He punctuates the phrase with another shrug.

  A part of me wants to hit him in his stupid shoulder so he can’t use it to communicate. “I have no idea with that means.”

  “It’s like … no problem. Don’t worry.”

  “Fa niente?” I repeat, letting the last syllable float up like a question.

  He nods, grin going crooked. “Good.”

  He opened the conversational door, and now it’s my job to keep it open. I bite my bottom lip as I try to come up with something easy. “Did you think of anything to play tonight?”

  Gabe raises his eyebrows at me, giving me that rakish smirk. “It’s a surprise.”

  HIS APARTMENT IS PITCH BLACK WHEN HE UNLOCKS THE DOOR. THE drapes on the windows overlooking Navy Pier and the lake are shut tight. He fumbles for the light switch on the wall, which turns on two dim lamps on side tables. I guess the lighting is supposed to be moody, but mostly, it’s just dark.

  He drops my equipment bag on his sofa and starts opening the curtains. There’s a thumbnail of sunlight reflecting over the waves, but the Ferris wheel is already lit, casting bright beams of light onto the water on either side of the pier. I don’t even want to know how much he pays for this view, but we’re going to get some use out of it today.

  “Oh, this is perfect.” I don’t bother with the tripod. “Sit down. Play something while the light is so good.”

  “Already?”

  “Yes!” I ignore the way his voice pitches a little high. “Go.”

  I set myself up in the piano’s curve, leaning awkwardly over the top to get his face and hands in the shot. It’s not very often that I’m grateful for my height, but today, it’s an advantage.

  He sits on the bench, rubs his palms against his thighs a couple of times, and places his hands on the keyboard. He looks up at me, waiting for my cue to start. I push the button, wait two seconds, and mouth, “Go.”

  His right hand starts first, slowly, just thumb and pinky hitting the keys. Then, the left hand drops in, and goose bumps shoot up my arms. His fingers dance over the keys, body rocking naturally with the rhythm. I know this song; it was my competition solo last year, but I’ve never heard it played like this. It’s intricate and delicate, but that doesn’t take the power from it.

  He looks up from the keyboard, meeting my gaze, and his attention is like a touch—a fingertip tracing my collarbone or the brush of lips on the back of my neck. When his eyes return to the keys, I take an unsteady breath.

  I never imagined that watching him play the piano would be
so personal. He finishes the song, holding a deep bass note until it fades away, and I stop recording.

  “Well …” I pause, trying to shake off the music’s hold. “I guess you aren’t just arrogant. You’re actually that good.”

  Gabe gives a surprised half laugh. “Thank you, I think?”

  “You’re welcome.” Pressing into the piano’s side, elbows on the lip, I click the video to watch the playback. Gabe stands up from the bench and steps behind me, watching over my shoulder. His presence is warm, his breath fluttering my hair. My eyes are on the screen, but every inch of my body is focused on him. His denim-clad leg is brushing my knee. His right arm has me half-caged against the piano.

  I’ve dated a little. I’ve kissed a lot. But never in any of those hurried moments on my doorstep or in someone’s basement have I been so aware of another person.

  The video ends. I’m afraid to turn around, to look up from my phone. I swallow to force some moisture into my mouth. “So?” I manage, rewinding the footage, to that moment when he looked at me over the piano. My heart trips in my chest and tumbles down my rib cage, knocking into each bone along the way. “What do you think?”

  He drops back onto the piano bench with a thump. “I hate it.”

  “What? Why?”

  Gabe’s head is down, and he trails his fingers over an angry-sounding minor key. “Shoot it from the other side.”

  “But the view of Navy Pier—”

  “Is part of the problem. There are people out there who will try to pinpoint which apartment building I’m in, and then wait for me to come down.” He looks up but only makes eye contact for a second before turning back to the piano. “Or worse, they’ll figure out how to get up here. I don’t need that. Iliana doesn’t either.”

  “That’s not even possible. What are they going to do? Count the windows?”

  “Maybe? It’s happened before.”

  “People came to your house?”

  He doesn’t look at me, eyes focused on the keys. “In Italy, yes. And to my gym. And to my car. They threw rocks; cracked my windshield.” He swallows and then looks up at me. “Did you hear about the fan that tried to attack me during a training session in Barcelona?”

  I come around the piano and sit beside him on the bench. “No.”

  “I’m not surprised.” His laugh is cold. “The cameras cut away when fans get on the field. Don’t want to encourage other people to try.”

  “He got onto the field?” Every time he answers a question, the knot in my throat grows exponentially.

  Gabe runs his fingers through his hair. “Past security, over the barricades. If it wasn’t for my teammates …”

  “They stopped him?”

  “Yeah.” A ghost of a smile drifts onto his face. “You don’t mess with my teammates.”

  My shoulders round with realization. “This is why there’s nothing personal on any of your accounts.”

  “Partially. I just—” He cuts off, playing a harsh melody. “Everyone hated me after the World Cup. There are probably people in Italy who always will. When everything that is personal—your successes, your failures, your most private moments—becomes public, those things don’t belong to you anymore.”

  His words hit me like the flu. My stomach twists with nausea and my bones feel like they’re jammed together too tightly. “We don’t have to do this. If you want to keep this to yourself, then you should.” Even if it leaves me nothing to work with.

  His voice is soft when he speaks again. “I’m so tired of people judging everything I do and never finding me good enough. Can you imagine what kind of things people might say when they see this?”

  His expression is so open, so vulnerable.

  “They’re going to see that you’re so talented.” I can’t help but grab his hand.

  He gives me a bashful smile, the one that’s reserved for moments like this, and I realize that Gabriel Fortunato—world-famous soccer star—is nervous. He swallows, the knob of his throat rising and falling, and he takes a deep breath. He’s visibly steeling himself. “I made you a promise. You agreed to not take pictures of the kids, and you didn’t. Will this song be enough?”

  My eyes drop to his mouth as he talks, and the words, the way his lips form around them, and it’s almost enough to make me forget what question I’m answering. “Of course.” I stand, needing to extract myself from the pull of Gabriel Fortunato. “But I will never push you into doing anything that doesn’t feel right.”

  “Thank you.” Gabe lets out a long, slow breath. “I can’t remember the last time someone cared about how I felt.”

  My heart swells inside my chest, pressing against my lungs. I hurt for him, but I’m also a little angry. He’s not Cube. He’s not a little kid who got bullied on a playground, but the emotion that shoots through my veins is the same I feel on my brother’s behalf. Gabe is older and bigger and probably more mature than me, but that doesn’t mean he defends himself to the adults who are supposed to have his best interests at heart.

  “I’ll just grab my stuff and let you get back to your weekend.”

  “No, don’t go.” He moves over to the tripod bag and starts to pull out the equipment. “We’ll close the drapes and you can film it from the other side.”

  “Really? I don’t—”

  “Really.”

  And I know he means it. He plays the song two more times, with the phone at different angles so I can splice the footage together later tonight. It will look professional, but it lacks the passion of the first recording. Which no one will ever notice because no one will know the other recording exists.

  It’s not that late, but I’m not brave enough to ask him to help me replace the lost footage after everything he’s just said. I do, however, need his approval on the other videos and photos.

  We set up at the kitchen bar, lights blazing, respectful distance between us, as I pull up the campaign and the elements on my laptop that will go live over the next two weeks.

  “Didn’t you get any footage from the training day?” he asks after I click through the edits I made to William’s video. “You weren’t just lying on the field for fun, right?”

  I push him with my shoulder. “I actually got some great stuff, but …” I hesitate. Max said Gabe would want to be the hero, but asking for help is harder than I imagined. With a deep breath, I add, “But somehow everything I loaded to the server got deleted and my aunt may kill me for it.”

  “Can we replace it?” He stands up and snatches his workout bag from under the coffee table and pulls out a soccer ball. “There’s a deck on top of the building with a putting green. Let’s go up there and figure it out.”

  It’s such a sweet offer. “I don’t want to put you out.”

  “It’s not,” he says, already grabbing my gear bag. “It’s almost dark. No one will be able to tell where we’re at.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, considering. “Are you sure?”

  “I promised you something better. Let’s go get it.”

  We go to the roof, which is sparsely decorated with a lounge set, fire pit, and a few planters with the putting turf off to one side. He dribbles, juggles, and runs himself through drills, while I film the whole thing—including him shooting the ball at the rooftop decor. He’s ridiculously accurate.

  I collapse onto the little strip of fake grass as I skim through the different clips. “This is going to be so good.”

  He drops down next to me, flat on his back, pillowing his head on his arms. “Of course it is.”

  The return of his confidence makes me smile.

  “Are you coming to the team’s charity gala? I heard they outsourced a lot of the work to Velocity.”

  I shrug, watching the playback. “If my aunt wants me to go, I guess I’ll be there.”

  “What if I want you there?”

  “I’m sure Em won’t mind.” I tilt my phone toward him. “You know what would be perfect to go along with this—”

  He covers the sc
reen, so I look at him, momentarily irritated. Then I notice that he’s rolled onto his side, head propped on his hand, and anything sharp I’d planned to say gets soft around the edges.

  “Come as my date?”

  I’m painfully aware of his hand over mine, fingers skimming the inside of my wrist. Of the way his T-shirt snags against my hip every time he inhales. Of the hint of scruff on his chin.

  “Why?” My voice is a breathless whisper. Everything about him is formulated to steal my good sense and ability to speak in sentences.

  “We’ve had a good time together, right?” He moves the hand from my phone to my kneecap and gives it a playful shake. “Plus, someone from Velocity will have to be there anyway. If I get to pick, I’d choose you.”

  He says it in an offhanded way, but his proximity plus the hand on my knee makes me think that on some level he actually means it.

  Gabriel Fortunato wants to take me on a date.

  My body is screaming its approval, but my brain is a little slower. Is this a good idea? Is this against some rule system? Is this unprofessional? Do I care?

  A group of people crash through the patio door, laughing loudly. Gabe is instantly on his feet. At first I think it’s because he’s moving away from me, but then I notice a familiar face among the partiers.

  “Iliana?” Gabe says, crossing the space toward his sister.

  Her eyes go wide and guilty. “I didn’t think you’d be up here.”

  “What … why are they here?”

  “Don’t worry. They’re my friends.” She reaches up and pats his cheek with the slow deliberation of someone who has had far too much to drink, and judging from the way the others lean against each other and the walls, I think all of her friends are in the same state.

  One of the guys tries to push past Gabe, but he shifts to block the pathway to the furniture.

  “You need to go,” Gabe says, voice low and full of threat.

  The laughter stops. Iliana says something in fast Italian, hand gripping Gabe’s chin. He shakes her off. “Don’t make me call security.”

  “Come on, man. She invited us up here,” the guy nearest the door whines.

  “Get. Out.”