Sweet Talk by Cara Bastone

Chapter Six

Eliot

Have you ever woken up the way they do in television shows? Where you sit straight up and your hair sticks out in every direction and you nearly fall out of bed, but that’s okay because you’ve had the epiphany of a lifetime and suddenly everything in your life becomes crystal-clear?

Well, that happened to me this morning.

Last night JD fell asleep on the phone with me. I hung up, playing the sound of her voice in my head over and over until I drifted into sleep. And then, I woke up this morning like a bolt of lightning had just hit me.

I knew exactly who she was.

I had just enough time to get ready for work, get out and test my theory, and then get back in time for a conference call I had scheduled.

I don’t want to be sweaty when I roll up to the coffee shop, which is the only reason I don’t jog there. When I get there, I stand to one side of the windows so she can’t see. I shake out my fingers like a major league pitcher. I’m so freaking nervous I could probably take a sip of lemonade and turn it back into a lemon in my mouth.

Well, now or never.

I take a deep breath and push into the café. It’s a cute place, I guess. Newish in the neighborhood, everything is powder-blue and gold, and I’d probably come here more often if it wasn’t so expensive. But I don’t care about that right now. I’d pay fifty bucks for a single stale scone if it means I get to see JD.

Please let her be working today. Please let her be working today.

At first glance, my stomach drops because I don’t see her. But then, yes! She stands up from behind the counter with a stack of to-go cups balanced in her hand. Her red hair is braided neatly down her back, and she looks as cute as ever in her powder-blue apron.

She doesn’t see me at first but when she catches sight of me standing two customers back in the line, her face lights up. I clear my throat when I make it to the front.

“Hey, Mia.”

“You remembered my name!” There’s that familiar voice. Husky. Honey. I’m almost positive she’s JD. But then she speaks again. “And you’re . . . hold on, give me a second.” She cocks her head to one side. “Ethan?”

My stomach drops again. Either she’s not JD or she’s a sensational actor. Because she genuinely looks like she doesn’t remember my name.

“Eliot.”

“Right! Hey, did you ever make it to that concert? The one we talked about before?”

The one other time we ever spoke in person was about two months ago. She was on her way out of work and was wearing a T-shirt for a band, and we got to talking about their music. She mentioned they had a concert coming up, and I hadn’t been sure if she was suggesting we go together or not.

“Uh, nope. No.”

“Me either.” Her smile widens. “You look nice today.”

“Thanks.”

I might have spent a few minutes extra getting my hair right. I also might have broken out a new shirt I haven’t had a reason to wear yet.

But that was because I was pretty sure I was coming to see JD. But Mia . . . I gave her my phone number, right? I’m almost positive. But now that I’m here, looking right at her, I can’t remember whether or not she gave me hers.

In which case, she might not be in my phone, jumbled contact info or not.

I order my drink and step off to the side. I look out the window at the passing neighborhood, but I’m pretty sure I can feel her eyes on the back of my head. When she calls my name, I smile as I take my drink from her. And there, in pen on the side of the blue paper cup, is a phone number.

I’ll compare the numbers when I get home and can do it without an audience, but I already know that she’s not JD. Why would JD give me her number? She would clearly already know that I had it.

Unless this is all just an elaborate ruse to throw me off her trail?

I take one last look at her as I walk out of the coffee shop. She smiles at me and it’s flirtatious but not . . . knowing.

Odds are low that I’ve found JD.

I walk past the Thai restaurant on my way home but it won’t open until lunchtime. I know that the family who owns it lives in the apartment above it. Is the hostess who delivered my dinner JD?

Ten minutes later I’m sitting in my home office and looking at the black screen of my laptop. The second I turn it on, I will only allow myself to think about work. I’ll have to put JD in that Camaro again.

I open my phone and scroll through my contacts, hoping that seeing the blur of names zing past will somehow trigger some lost memory or clue as to how I know JD. I stop the scroll of contacts at random and find I’m staring at Paloma’s contact info. My sister’s best friend.

I groan. I hadn’t even started to consider all of Vera’s friends. I scroll again and land on an old friend of mine from college. Another groan. There are literally dozens of people that JD could be.

She could be an old work contact. She could be a buddy’s ex-girlfriend. She could be someone I met on that cruise three years ago. Or worse, she could be someone totally random. What if I met her at a bar or a party and she’s completely lost to the annals of time? When she tells me her name, I still might not know who she is. What if I’m trying to guess someone I truly don’t know? I’ll never find out who she is.

I take a deep breath and wave goodbye to JD for the day, flicking on my computer and setting my phone aside.

Around lunchtime I’m roused from work by someone knocking on my front door. I swing it open and blink at my superintendent standing on the other side.

If we’re being honest here, my super kind of scares the shit out of me. She suffers exactly zero fools. She wears red-black lipstick and has tattoos up and down her arms. She’s always in overalls and combat boots and has one of those middle-of-the-nose piercings. I have literally seen her with a pack of cigarettes rolled up into the sleeve of her white T-shirt. She’s more James Dean than I could ever hope to be in my whole Windsor-knotted life.

I always feel like a complete square whenever I’m around her. Especially since the way we met was . . . God. I cringe just thinking about it. Let’s just say that I didn’t get her name, and I’ve been too scared to ask again.

I resist the urge to fiddle with the sleeves of my button-down. “Hey! What’s up?”

Frida Hawkins, my downstairs neighbor, peeks around the door, her milk-white hair standing out against her tan skin. I hadn’t even seen her standing there.

“Eliot. Hi there, sweetie.”

“Hi, Frida.”

“Your kitchen sink is leaking again and ruining my ceiling.”

“Oh! Shoot!” This happened last year, too.

My super raises her eyebrows and holds up the toolbox I hadn’t noticed she was carrying.

“Right, right.” I’m shuffling to the side and waving her inside. Of course, because she has never in her life missed an opportunity to snoop, Frida ducks into my apartment as well, the top of her head bobbing past at my shoulder level. As soon as she gets inside she’s immediately twisting one of my plants ninety degrees and straightening the mail on my countertop.

“I’m sure it won’t take long,” Frida assures me. “Do you have anything for us to drink?”

I glance over at the super who’s looking pretty amused at Frida. I immediately take notes on how to smile and look like a complete badass at the same time.

“Sure, sure. Orange juice okay for everybody?”

The super nods and crouches down in front of my sink, getting to work. I spend the next twenty minutes gently herding Frida back toward the kitchen. If left to her own devices, I have zero doubts she would have already pawed through my underwear drawer.

Apparently the work is done because the super stands up, washes her hands, and then polishes off the full glass of orange juice I left for her in three gigantic swallows. I bet she’s one of those people who can parallel park in one swoop.

“Oh!” I remember at the last minute. “Actually, the light in my hallway has been flickering in and out. Do you have a second to check it out?”

“Really?” Frida asks at my elbow and I jump. The woman is sneaky like a cat. “Do you think it’s the wiring? Maybe that security system you had installed is screwing with the electric.”

I try very hard not to frown at Frida, but I don’t like the reminder that the installation of my high-tech security system has definitely been quite the meal for the building gossips. I already feel silly enough every time I get home and come eye-to-eye with the red blinking light that tells me the system is activated. Knowing my neighbors are talking about it makes me feel even more sheepish.

“I’m pretty sure the two systems don’t have anything to do with each other.” By the time I’m done saying this to Frida, the super’s already pulled one of my kitchen stools into the hallway and is unscrewing the light fixture. She eyes the flickering bulb for a second and then reaches up and screws it all the way in. The light immediately beams out, steady and strong.

Oh, my God. I don’t resist the urge to cover my face with one hand. That . . . is . . . embarrassing.

I’ve lived with a flickering hall light for a month and a half now and it didn’t even occur to me that maybe I hadn’t screwed the bulb in far enough.

“I . . . right. Sorry. I’ll . . . um, check that next time. Thanks.”

I’m pretty sure she’s trying not to smile as she puts the stool back and gives me a polite nod.

“I guess we’ll be going now, Eliot.” Frida reaches up to pat my face none too gently. “You should come by for dinner this week. Bring your sister. But don’t bring that Patricia person, please. She was too much for me last time. What a talker. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.”

This time, I’m the one trying to hold back a smile. Patricia was a woman I dated for a few months a few years ago, and she was, in a fact, a talker. Which was the exact reason I brought her for dinner at Frida’s. Call it morbid curiosity, but I’d wanted to see what would happen when two titans clashed. Who would win the race for more words uttered in one night, Frida or Patricia? Patricia won, by a hair, and Frida will never let me forget it. I think every time I’ve seen her since she’s found a way to mention that she doesn’t think Patricia is the right girl for me. Incidentally, she’s right. Patricia was not the right girl for me.

But conceding that point to Frida feels like conceding a little too much power over my dating life. I really don’t want Frida to start feeling like she has influence over who I do or don’t date. I can only imagine the blind dates she’d try to set me up on.

“Uh-huh.” I’m at the door, holding it open for them. “Thanks again for the help.”

The super, schlepping her toolbox, gives me a salute and a friendly smirk on her way out the door and somehow manages to make it look cool. I attempt to salute back and end up looking like a complete tool.

Frida smothers a laugh and gives me one more face slap disguised as affection. “A thumbs-up is more your speed, dear.”

It’s the wickedest burn anyone has ever given me. I can’t help but laugh.