The Real

“Do you have a cigarette?”

I shook my head as I inched back, retrieving some of the personal space she’d invaded. “No, sorry, I don’t smoke.”

“Too m

any non-smokers in this city,” she snapped, as she ogled me closely to see if there was anything else on my person she could ask for. I quickly put my earbud back in and looked out the window at the fly-by houses and trees covered in the fading amber sun.

The woman hovered a little longer before she moved on. I ignored the twinge of guilt. I gave to the needy, not the rude and expectant. It’s a skill you acquire when you live in the city.

When I stepped off the train at my stop, the brisk air slapped me in the face. Wicker Park wasn’t exactly riddled with crime, but it was a melting pot and always bustling, which still made it necessary to stay alert. With my tote hanging on my arm, I slid my hands into my coat as I walked past the familiar side street cafés, bookstores, shops, restaurants, and pubs. The neighborhood had an intimate charm and a small radius, but on any given day, you would find it hard to spot the same neighbor in a sea of unfamiliar faces.

I thought of Cameron as I walked through the iron gate and up the steps to my three-flat. I’d stopped by Sunny Side that morning in hopes of seeing him and had worked for hours longer than usual in an off chance to steal another glance. It was pathetic, but true.

My love-life had been a train-wreck for the past few years, to put it mildly, and he seemed like a bright spot, an opportunity. And then . . . he’d left.

I shrugged to myself. His loss.

After waiting in vain, I’d taken the train into the city to meet my brother, Oliver, for a late lunch. Turned out I waited for two men that day who never showed. Oliver had texted me last minute, saying he couldn’t get away from the hospital, but I knew better. He kept a full schedule, both personally and professionally. Even if he was a womanizer, he was rarely alone. I cursed the fact that I envied him for that, because I never thought I’d see the day.

Flipping through my mail I counted my blessings.

I still had my health, a career I loved that afforded me every comfort, including my oversized home. I made the decision to buy despite my marital status. I was pushing thirty-one and still wasn’t part of a we, so I lifted both middle fingers to Cupid and invested in a love nest of my own.

The top two floors were mine, but I rented out the basement floor to a little old lady, Mrs. Zingaro, who’d become my second job. Though she was sugarcoated, she creeped me out sometimes. I swore she was dead or dying every time I saw her perched on the bench in her garden. She was one of those people who would stare off into space and scare the shit out of you when they snapped out of it.

My first experience with this last summer had scarred me for life. I’d found her standing statue-still in the middle of her garden—the garden she dug up after I’d paid a fortune for new sod—with a watering can in hand. She was frozen for several moments as I approached her, gently calling her name. I wasn’t sure if a corpse could stand, but in broad daylight, I was certain I was witnessing it.

In retrospect, the decision to approach her in her stupor was about as smart as sneaking up on a cat, and I’d gone down like the lightweight I was when she clocked me in surprise with the watering can.

Not many people could say they got their ass kicked with a watering can. I’m one of the lucky ones.

Because of my tenant’s need for company, I’d learned how to pretend to fix many things that weren’t broken. And because I was lonely most nights, I indulged her.

Tonight, I was thankful the downstairs lights were off when I unlocked my door.

Cautious, as always, I scanned the living room of the home I’d spent two years remodeling, just to make sure I was alone.

Dark original hardwood floors, two-toned gray walls, and bleached furniture with lemon and navy accents. It was exactly what I’d dreamed up when I’d started the renovation project and was now my reality. It was, in fact, perfect, and I was, in fact, alone.

All alone.

Suddenly I wanted to be anywhere else.

“What in the hell is wrong with me?” I asked the empty space.

Restless life syndrome.

My phone rattled in my coat just as I threw my purse on the couch.

Looking at my screen, I thanked God when I saw Bree’s name. She’d been gone far too long this time. I slid to answer and launched into her.

“You can’t leave me alone like this, Bree! Not for this length of time. I’m putting my foot down. I’m going through something close to a mid-life crisis because of your extended absences, and my imagination is in overdrive. I’m pretty sure my new neighbor started killing small animals in his youth. Seriously, he’s creepy. How was Scotland? Wait, don’t tell me. You and Anthony had sex in obscene places and you’re still glowing in the aftermath. I hate you right now, but I missed you so much, I’m willing to forgive you.”

“Wow.” Bree laughed in response to my breathless monologue. “Talk about passive-aggressive. You’re just bored, and you need to get laid. Your new neighbor’s name is Simon, and I already met him when I was waiting for you at your place when you lost your keys. He’s harmless and teaches Sunday school. Scotland was amazing, I have so much to tell you!”

To tell me?

“Anthony and I . . . ”