He chuckles and releases my wrist. “I’m hungry, too. I think I’ll run to the corner and get something for us. What do you want?”
“Lasagna.” I look down at my tank and sleep shorts. “Want me to change and come with?”
He shakes his head and gets to his feet. “Nah. You should stay. You’ve been on your feet all day. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Our building lies in the middle of every ethnic eatery a person can imagine—Thai, Mexican, Chinese—all served till late in the night. I know he’ll only be a half-hour if he orders ahead. Still, I’ll miss the separation of that short time. I reconsider running across and changing clothes.
I grab his free hand, the one not already dialing some number on his cell. “Hey.”
“What babe?” He holds the phone to his ear and waits for me to tell him.
“I want you to know that I’ve had the…” I search for a way to finish without sounding like I’m ready to throw on a wedding dress.
“Yes,” he releases my hand and holds up a finger to indicate I should wait. “Two orders of lasagna and a large salad. No. Does that come with garlic bread? Ok. Yeah. Thanks.”
I’d been close to saying it was the best three days of my life. “Nothing.”
He arches one eyebrow. “Methinks the lady tells an untruth.”
I lift one shoulder. “I’ve had a craving for lasagna for days.”
He smirks. “We’ll take care of this craving. I’ve had a certain craving all day.”
I feel pleasurable warmth creep into my face. “Is everything a sexual innuendo now? Go.”
Leo laughs. “I won’t be long.”
After he leaves, I stretch out on the sofa as if I’ve belonged in his apartment forever. The television is still on, the tiny fan on his desk still whirs, his laptop monitor still glows.
He’s left his life running and waiting with me in it. I’m not an outsider to him, but a part of his day. I hop up, walk to his desk, and let my fingers run along the worn wood. The things that he keeps nearby while he works fascinate me. There’s a shiny, very expensive pen on a pad where he’s jotted down words that mean nothing to me in their randomness.
And it’s not like he’s writing my name on the page, but I want to connect the words to me—beauty, lust, love, ache. A random phrase floating above a sun and stars and galaxy drawn at the top of his page. ‘One world struck by an asteroid and now its path has been rewritten.’
He must be brainstorming for his novel and those words help him. I feel guilty looking at the pad now in my accidental snooping, but it’s also intriguing to see the way he thinks. Across the desk, there’s a couple of envelopes he hasn’t opened.
At the edge, there’s a funny looking box. It’s fabricated to look like a thick hardback book, dark burgundy cover with gold embossed lettering. I reach and pull it to me. It looks like the type of storage box where you’d keep photos.
I can’t help myself. The lure of seeing pictures of Leo has me giddy. I lift the lid and it’s packed, but not with photos.
Postcards. Every shape and size. The top one has a colorful photo of the Brooklyn Bridge. I turn it over and read, despite the warning screams in my head telling me I should stop.
The next postcard has a mustache on it. And the next is a photo of a diner. There’s at least a couple of hundred in the box. My hands shake as I lift the stack up. I feel the weight of all the people who have written Mr. Expose—Leo. Their pain and fear and fury. Their pleas for help.
My plea and then my request to rescind. And the way he so coldly addressed my emails.
No wonder I didn’t find these the time I broke into his apartment. The box camouflages them so well. Leo’s written a range of dates on the paper stuck to the inside lid. Each white square has three lines for noting something about the contents. Although this one doesn’t list the time period of my postcard, I realize he could’ve found my postcard. Easily. If he’d wanted to.
I set the cards inside and turn slowly, as if I have a Tyrannosaurus rex breathing at my ear. Because that’s what it feels like—a realization so big, it fills the room and I can’t do anything but cut my eyes to the thing that’s been in front of me the entire time. This is where he hides the Mr. Expose postcards.
My pulse booms in my ears, sounding like the gong of a hammer hitting the inside of an empty barrel.
At the top of Leo’s bookshelf that spans one wall, there’s a row of book spines identical to the faux one on the box. Anyone looking would assume it’s a row of classics—books that he considers precious. They are on a shelf too high for me to reach without using the stepladder.
I’ve never bothered. All the books I’ve wanted to read are within my reach.
A knock at the door causes me to jump. I hastily make sure the box is back in place, that I haven’t screwed up his organized desk.
I walk to the door with my entire body shaking so badly that I might as well have ‘guilty’ stamped on my forehead. The right thing to do would be to stay silent and not attempt to answer the door. It’s late and I doubt if it’s Josie.
My instincts scream a bad feeling as I squint into the peephole. Tori. I should’ve known better. There’s too much between them that I don’t know about. Besides, she’s everything I’m not—confident, beautiful, and sexy. With my heart in my throat, I examine her. She’s wearing a tight, white, silky tank and an extremely short mini-skirt. A sit-the-wrong-way-and-flash-your-panties skirt.
My hand is on the knob. Why is she here? I heard him tell her that she’s not to come back. My fingers curl into my palms. Open it or ignore her?
I open the door because I want her to see me and to understand once and for all that she needs to back off. Leo wants me in his life.
She eyes me and looks over my shoulder. When her gaze returns to mine, it’s dismissive, as though I don’t matter. “I’m here to see Leo.”
“He’s not home.” I cross my arms over my chest.
“Oh.” She cocks her head to one side and her judgmental gaze travels from my face down the length of my body. My pajamas aren’t meant to be sexy. It’s a comfortable, cotton set that I’ve worn for a while.
I hope my clothing says I don’t have to try hard to have Leo. That he likes me just the way I am. “Do you want to leave a message?”
Her mouth forms a straight line in a half-smile, half-grimace. “I don’t think I do. I’m sure I’ll see him later.”
“OK, then. Bye.” I move to close the door and she puts a hand out to stop it from shutting.
“Listen. I’m not your enemy. I’m sure you are very nice. And that we could be friends under different circumstances. But Leo is not over me. I hurt him really badly and I’ll never forgive myself for it. I don’t want you to fool yourself. You’re only a rebound for him.”
I’m shocked at her gall. “I heard him tell you to stay away.”
She studies her shoes that make her legs look incredible. I imagine one well-placed kick to her shins making her topple. Hopefully, I’d leave a nasty bruise.
Tori looks up at me. “He’s afraid I’ll hurt him again. And I can’t blame him for being scared. But Leo and I are getting back together. I plan to leave my husband so I can be with him. Leo begged me to get a divorce.”
I suck in air. Tori is married? She and Leo were having an affair?
My head feels light and my body numb. This can’t be true. She’s a liar. Josie would’ve told me something like this. Then I remember that Josie didn’t really tell me anything.
“Sorry,” Tori says from somewhere miles outside my head. “I can tell you really like Leo. But he’s not over me and I’m not over him. Take my advice. Step back before you get your heart broken.”
Without responding to her—because my response still might be to kick her in the shins—I back away and quietly close the door.
Tori’s statement about being married has to be true. I could ask Leo and easily confirm what she’s said. He would date a married woman?