“Wow,” I whisper, setting my bags down.
My whisper turns to a little cry of delight when I spot the gift basket sitting on the iron-and-wood bedside table. It’s filled with shampoo, body lotions, bath gels, and bath bombs. A cashmere robe and slippers complete the set.
It’s all a little freaky, given that there is a welcome note made out to me from Scott Inc. Since Mr. Scott appears to be the über efficient type, I shouldn’t be surprised. I haven’t spied Stevens yet, but he’s supposed to be shy. Best way to deal with shy pets is to wait them out.
I tour the bathroom—whirlpool tub for two!—and then toe off my shoes and plop myself on the bed with a sigh. The house is still, and the storm outside the big window blows madly. The massive bed is a cocoon of comfort.
Inexplicably, my vision blurs, and I take a shuddery breath and let it out slowly.
They say home is where the heart is. I think whoever came up with that little idiom was trying to make themselves feel better. When you don’t have a permanent home, you feel it. I’ve just lost mine, and while I make good money, more than I’d make at any office job I could find, I can’t afford to buy or even rent a new place in Manhattan. I could move somewhere else but New York has been my home for my entire life. I have friends and connections here.
And, sadly, this is the city where my dad left me. As pathetic as it is, if I leave, it will feel like a death, like that last small connection between us has been permanently severed.
A light pat on the bed has me turning my head. “There you are, Stevens.”
Stevens is a brown tabby with bright yellow eyes and a sweet expression. He gives a little inquisitive meow and then bumps my hip with his head. I hold out my hand, and after a few sniffs, he’s purring and letting me stroke his silky fur. “Such a pretty boy.”
The ache in my chest both intensifies and releases as Stevens purrs and offers me his warmth. I snuggle him closer. He’s the main reason I took this job. I might not be able to keep a pet, but I can love others for a short time.
“Come on, Stevens, let’s raid the kitchen.”
Changing into my warmest jammies and thick socks, I head downstairs. The snow is falling so thickly now that the view from the wall of windows is a blur of white. I turn on the gas fireplace, feed Stevens his dinner, and settle down at the kitchen island with my ice cream.
The silence is profound, the snowfall blotting out the sounds of the city, which has been forced to rest for once. But the peaceful quiet doesn’t last for long.
From somewhere in the building comes the sound of an acoustic guitar. It’s hard to tell exactly where because the music echoes and amplifies in the snow-induced silence until the sound seems to surround me. Whoever is playing is good.
Make that really damn good.
The guitarist is playing one of Kill John’s older songs, a slow ballad that speaks of bittersweet love and times passed. It adds to my morose mood, and I’m tempted to shout out a request for the unknown guitarist to play Kill John’s “Apathy” so I can dance around the penthouse and feel empowered instead.
But the mournful song is too lovely to stop. Humming along, I take a heaping spoonful of my beloved mint chip right out of the carton and slowly slide it into my mouth. The act doesn’t give me as much pleasure as it usually does. The mint chip tastes weak, and my mind fills with the image of John instead.
Such a strange thing is life. All these moments of interaction with others, followed by a return to normalcy. Usually, we don’t give it a second thought. And yet there will be those singular moments that somehow embed themselves in our psyche when we’re least prepared.
Try as I might, I can’t shake the mint showdown I had with John. I might say that it’s because he was hot. But that isn’t it. Okay, sure, that’s part of it. Sparring with a cute guy certainly gives me a high. But no, it’s something more.
“It’s like I know the man,” I tell Stevens as I take another spoonful of ice cream. “I know his face. Which is just weird, because I don’t know him at all.”
Stevens meows and bunts my foot with his head.
“I know. Right? Maybe it was some sort bizarre déjà vu.”
The haunting notes of Kill John’s song plays on, distracting me further.
John’s eyes flash in my mind, that look he gave me from under those dark locks of hair … I’d seen that expression from him before. Realization hits me like a freight train.