Every Breath You Take

by Bianca Sloane

  “I would ask what game, but there’s always a game, isn’t there?”

  “You know it,” he grinned as he leaned closer and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “So, you from Chicago?”

  “No, I’m from a little town in Arkansas, but Chicago’s home.”

  “Arkansas, huh? So is your family still there?”

  “Ah, yes and no. My, um . . . my parents were killed when I was a baby, and for a little while I was raised by my grandparents until they got too sick. Then my uncle and his wife took me in, but . . . we’re not close.”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s okay. So, what about you?” she said to shift attention away from yet another subject she hated talking about. “Are you close with your family?”

  “Real tight. My parents live over in Lincolnwood and my youngest sister lives in Minneapolis and the other younger sister is out in Oak Park, got a couple of kids. We all talk all the time, see each other all the time. Like I said, real close.” He started playing with the box of sugar packets again. “So, tell me, what do you do?”

  “I’m in PR. I do the public relations for the Channing Hotels.”

  “Ah, okay, and The Spencer is a Channing Hotel, which is why you were there the other night.”

  “Right. My boss was supposed to go but couldn’t, so I had to go and. . .” she waved her hand around. “Anyway. That kind of thing happens all the time. What about you? What were you doing there?”

  He took a sip of his water before lining up the salt and pepper shakers alongside the sweetener a few times. “My firm represents the investors for Springboard and it was our reception.”

  “Okay. I have to ask. Who decided to have a reception on a Friday night?”

  He laughed. Deep. Hearty. Full. “Aw, man. That was my boss. He’s always trying to do stuff on Friday nights so he doesn’t have to go home to the suburbs. I guess it beats a mistress.”

  “I guess.”

  “All right, enough about my boring boss,” he said. “Tell me, what does a public relations manager do?”

  “Well, I promote the hotels, so I plan events, write press releases and speeches, work with the media, that kind of thing.”

  “You like it?”

  “I love it. I worked for one of those big PR agencies before that. Offices around the world, hundreds of people, that whole thing. All I did was pitch all day long, and after a while I got bored. When this job with Channing opened up, I jumped at it. A lot more hands-on, a lot more creative. Like I said, I absolutely love it.”

  “Well, you don’t hear too many people say they love their job, so that’s a change. So that’s what you went to school for then?”

  “No, actually, I was an English major. I was trying to find a way to stay here for the summer, and one of the big agencies was looking for English majors for internships, you know, because of the writing. Anyway, on a total lark, I went out for it and got it and wound up really liking it. The funny thing is, I didn’t even know what PR was before that. It just sounded interesting. Plus, I didn’t know what else I was supposed to do with that English degree.”

  He snorted. “My sister found that out the hard way. She was also an English major and . . . I dunno what she thought she was gonna do. Write or teach or who knows. She didn’t even know. Anyway, she’s managing some clothing store or makeup store, I can’t remember which, till she figures it out. Maybe I’ll mention public relations to her.”

  “You should. And hey, look at it this way, she’s working.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I mean, at least she’s not living in my parents’ basement.”

  She giggled. “That’s something.”

  “All right, so, I’m guessing you’re not living in somebody’s basement.”

  “No. Definitely not,” she said. “I’m over in, I guess you’d call it River North—those high rises right around Dearborn, Chicago, that area.”

  “Whew, yeah, I did the high-rise thing for years, but I didn’t like it.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  “I’m scared of heights.”

  Natalie laughed, and he joined in. “Seriously?”

  “Hand to God. Was over in Hyde Park for a couple of years. I had this great balcony overlooking the lake and couldn’t go out there. Floor-to-ceiling windows and couldn’t look out of them. I just always had this vision of falling out the window.”

  “Yikes. Scary.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, I bought a loft over in the West Loop a few years ago and couldn’t be happier.”

  “That’s a great neighborhood. You’ve got so many awesome restaurants over there.” She paused and took another sip of water. Were things really going this well? “So I saw on your card you’re a financial analyst?”

  “That I am. I was always really good with numbers, but I didn’t want to be a trader, because, you know, I wanted to live past thirty, and I wasn’t all that interested in doing the entrepreneurial thing. I don’t know. Being an analyst just spoke to my anal tendencies.”

  “Like a calling.”

  “You could say that. I work for a French bank, been there about ten years and they’ve been really good to me. I even get to go to Paris every couple of months.”

  “Oh, wow. I’m jealous.”

  “Don’t be,” he snorted. “Really. I fly in, do business, and fly out. To me, Paris is the conference room of our office in Tour Gan.”

  She leaned forward. “Is that a high-rise?”

  He laughed. “It is. I still don’t look out the windows.”

  The waitress set down their plates in front of them, and Natalie picked up her fork, tossing her salad around a bit. “I hope you like the grouper.”

  “If I hate it, I may never forgive you.”

  She giggled. “Uh oh.”

  He took a bite and frowned, which made her heart leap. “Oh, no. You hate it.”

  He laughed and reached across the table to jiggle her arm, an action that sent lightning bolts ricocheting through her. She picked up her water glass, hoping it would cool her off. “I’m just kidding,” he said. “It’s delicious.”

  “Whew. Saved.”

  They continued on, the conversation slipping into an easy banter that veered between the usual getting-to-know-you pleasantries and the playful chitchat that typically came with couples who had known each other for an untold length of time. His life sounded like a heartwarming weekly sitcom with a canned soundtrack that occasionally erupted into hearty guffaws; his mother taught eighth-grade English and his father had a dental practice. He’d grown up in the same house, had the same friends, and still went to Sunday dinner at his parents’ house each week. Jason Hudson had the kind of loving, stable childhood she’d always dreamed about and always thought was for people not like her.

  As they continued to talk, Natalie found herself listing his superlatives. How wide and open his smile was. His rumbling, throaty laugh. His quick wit. His confidence. His quirkiness. Even the mild OCD didn’t bother her as she watched him continually rearrange the items on the table and banish imaginary crumbs to the floor—she found it a bit charming. The butterflies were running rampant across her insides, and dry mouth was wreaking havoc on her lips. Then there was the worry she was talking too much or not talking enough and the relief she had passed on getting the steak salad with its shards of pungent red onion, of being charmed when he asked what she wanted for dessert because he thought a meal wasn’t really finished until you had dessert. Of his smile when she said she’d split the cheesecake with him.

  Natalie popped a piece of gum in her mouth while the waitress cleared the plates. She looked at her watch and gasped. “Oh, scheisse.”

  “What did you say?” he said, laughing.

  “Oh, um, scheisse . . . it’s German for . . . shit. Shit, scheisse.” Embarrassment flamed across her cheeks. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . I really need to get going. I had someone schedule a last-minute conference call for three and it’s two-thirty.”


  He choked on his water. “Oh, man. I didn’t realize we’d been talking so long. Sorry about that.”

  “No, it’s okay, really.”

  He laughed and signaled for the check. “Thank goodness. I want to make sure I stay on your good side.”

  Jason paid and she shivered when his fingertips grazed the small of her back as he guided her out of the restaurant. Natalie cleared her throat and looked down at her shoes.

  “Well, thank you for lunch,” she said. “I had a great time.”

  “Good. I’m glad. And again, sorry for keeping you so late. Just don’t hold it against me.”

  “I think you’re safe.”

  “Good, good. Here . . . let me grab you a cab, and, uh . . . I’d like to see you again.”

  Tingles somersaulted down her spine. “I’d like that.” She started rummaging around in her purse for her silver business card holder, hoping she didn’t look like a bag lady, before finally extracting a card and handing it to him. “My cell phone number’s on there and I don’t have a landline and . . . well, anyway, you can call that number . . . if you want.”

  He grinned. “I want.”

  She looked down, an embarrassed laugh bubbling from her lips. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  He gave her another smile before stepping out in the street to flag down a cab, which screeched to the curb. He opened the door for her and pressed a ten into her palm. She looked down, surprised. “Oh, no, it’s okay. I—”

  Jason smiled and shut the door. “Talk to you soon, Natalie.”

  She turned around as he stepped back onto the sidewalk and put his hands in his pockets, watching the cab as it pulled away.

  Chapter 6

  HE

  He wiggled his fingers and rolled his head around, delighting at the series of pops, like little explosions, releasing within the stiff joints of his neck. He gripped the edge of the shopping cart and pulled his baseball cap closer to his eyes, wishing he could wear his sunglasses. That would be too memorable, though. A man walking around inside with sunglasses when it was eighty-five and overcast outside would stick out in the worst way. He could just hear the peppy, thirty-something housewife in her hot-pink yoga pants, water bottle molded from recyclable materials bouncing on her hip, iPhone glued to her ear while she loaded her cart with organic tomato juice and gluten-free cupcakes, being interviewed on the news: “Well, I thought it was strange that he was wearing sunglasses inside when it was cloudy all day. I mean, who does that?”

  He made soft clicks with his tongue as he waited a few seconds to round the corner of the aisle to ensure she wouldn’t see him. She was picking through the vast selections of olive oil, continually examining the labels, seeming to have a hard time selecting one. She finally placed a tall, slender bottle into her basket before strolling down the aisle and making a left toward what he was sure was the frozen food section to load up on her standby low-fat dinners. How she was able to stomach those, he didn’t understand. In solidarity, he’d tried one once—a so-called chicken breast swimming in a slimy sauce that promised to be spicy, but was really more sweet, accompanied by a limp snap pea and a handful of mushy pearl onions. He’d spit out the first bite of the pasty threads of meat, deciding those disgusting dinners would be the first thing to go when the time came.

  He saw her check her phone before she hurried to the front to pay for her items. He hung back a few minutes before slipping into a line a few cashiers over, never taking his eyes off her as she threw a couple of magazines into her basket and kept looking at her phone. She paid for her groceries and told the cashier to have a nice day before picking up her three plastic bags and darting out into the damp, warm afternoon.

  He, too, paid for his food, having picked up just enough items to make it look as though he was shopping and not spying. He jogged outside, searching the trickles of people streaming along the sidewalks, smiling when he spotted her ponytail swishing across her back. He swung his one plastic grocery bag, whistling softly to himself as he followed behind, stopping short as she disappeared behind the revolving glass door of her building.

  He sighed as he settled onto the bench across the street. That was one thing Chicago seemed to have a never-ending supply of—benches. He set the plastic shopping bag down next to him as he reached into his back pocket to extract the ever-present little green spiral notebook. He licked his thumb and forefinger as he shuffled through the grubby pages to a blank sheet and uncapped his ballpoint pen, printing “Saturday” in wiry blue letters across the top.

  9 – pilates class Black yoga pants pink shirt

  10- large banana strawberry smoothie from snack bar Brought her own water bottle

  1015 – leaves the gym–no shower?

  1030 – post office Stamps. Drops stack envelopes in mailbox

  1100—Pedicure No manicure. (What color?)

  1200 –groceries Olive oil spaghetti (black box) lean cuisines (five) strawberry yogurts (10?), cinnamon gum bagels orange juice magazines tube cookie dough

  1245 – home

  ?

  Chapter 7

  SHE

  “Seriously? Do me a favor and stop trying to play matchmaker.”

  “What? He’s cute, single. He’s been with the company for a few years. I didn’t know he was a jackass.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m here to tell you he was beyond a jackass.”

  “Oh, please,” Brandy scoffed. “What the hell else were you doing tonight?”

  Natalie signed her bar tab for the lone glass of wine she’d had during the ill-advised but well-meaning blind drink where the guy declared all women to be gold diggers, that you had to be his girlfriend for at least six months before he paid for a date before finally asking her if she wanted to go back to his place and fuck because he’d had a really stressful week.

  “Listen, I could have found about fifteen things more interesting to do tonight than waste my time on that jackhole. Pulling off my toenails one by one comes to mind.”

  “All right, all right. Sue me for trying. Dating is a numbers game. I was just trying to increase your od—oh, oh, I gotta motor. Just saw Sam walk in the door.”

  “Which one is Sam again? Never mind. Call me tomorrow.”

  “You still love me, right?”

  “Uh huh,” Natalie chuckled before hanging up.

  She pushed out into the summer evening and started to hold up her hand for a cab before changing her mind and turning down State Street to take the long route home. Winter would come blowing through soon enough, so any chance to take advantage of the sticky summer nights was one she was always willing to take. Not to mention the long walk would help her decompress not only from the day but the bust of a date as well.

  Natalie liked nights like this, when the humidity wrapped around you like a thick wool coat and belching, near-empty city buses, vacated in favor of bicycles and walking, rumbled past you—when women in expensive tailored suits or colorful A-line skirts and snug t-shirts, tiny purses and bulky leather tote bags slung over their shoulders, sparkly flip-flops adorning their feet (the symbol of Chicago summer; her own were in her bottom desk drawer, abandoned for this stupid date) hustled down the sidewalks toward home or happy hour. She passed a group of giggly girls, each armed with greasy brown bags of Garrett’s Popcorn, their fingertips glowing with thick, orange cheese, their voices pitching upward in the unmistakable screeching chatter that could only belong to teenagers. They stopped in front of a cluster of bucket boys, the furious pounding of their sticks against the dingy upturned white buckets reverberating off the luxury condos and high-end office buildings that comprised this pocket of the Loop. She smiled as she continued her journey down State, deciding to turn right on Wacker to hit Michigan so she could pass by the river. Her heart leapt a little as it always did as she rounded the corner and was swallowed into the crush of the city. She could still remember coming downtown for her first official sightseeing jaunt, about a month after transferring to Northwestern from Brown. Staring down N
orth Michigan Avenue—the John Hancock building, Tribune Tower, and Wrigley Building looking back at her, the sidewalks teeming with tourists, cars, cabs, and buses screaming down the street—she knew she was home.

  Natalie often wondered whether she would have found her way to Chicago had her parents lived. She could have possibly been a Texan with a big car, bigger hair, and a syrupy twang. Ricky and Laura had grabbed the brass ring out of Braxton, Arkansas, banking their future on his status as the newest Dallas Cowboy, a prized quarterback who was showered with signing bonuses, new cars, and predictions of glittering championship rings and Hall of Fame accolades.

  Laura’s own sights were set on a career in nursing—motherhood most of all. Six-month-old Natalie was to be the first of many children. Ricky often joked he wanted to breed a football team, and Laura would shoot back she was getting her own cheerleading squad. Young, blissful, beautiful, with the world on a string. They had just closed on a house in the posh Dallas suburb of Highland Park before joining team management for a dinner that ran later than intended. Laura, eager to get home to her baby back in Braxton with her parents, had insisted they drive the five hours and six minutes home late Wednesday night rather than waiting until Thursday morning, which was Ricky’s preference.

  Everyone used to shake their heads over the “Why Didn’ts?” of it all. “Why Didn’t?” Ricky put his foot down and insist they wait until Thursday morning. “Why Didn’t?” Laura realize the prudent thing would have been to stay put in their hotel that night. “Why Didn’t?” the bleary-eyed trucker, who’d been on the road for three days straight, pull over to a rest stop for the night. “Why Didn’t?” he refuse to take that extra shift, his seventh in as many days, so he wouldn’t have nodded off at the wheel for a few seconds before slamming into Ricky’s Honda Civic, a sixteenth birthday gift from his father and the one he planned to trade in the following week for a shiny new Cadillac.