The One I Want

“I was here the first day you walked through that door as a precocious seven-year-old,” he says, pointing at the front as I snack on the pastry. “My daughter used to babysit you, and my sweet wife, Nancy, baked your tenth birthday cake. I always grab an extra just in case you need a pick-me-up. Call me sentimental.”

“Sentimental,” I say, watching his smile grow wider. “But honestly, I hate you spending your hard-earned money on me. You don’t have to.” I bite off more than I can chew—in life and of the donut—but do it anyway.

“I don’t mind, Juni.” He kicks his feet up on the counter, and asks, “Now what can I do for you?”

There’s always been a bond between us. He’s been a voice of reason many times over the years, and despite me coming down here regularly dressed like a crazy person in the wee morning hours when I can’t sleep, he never judges me for it. It’s called respect.

“I feel stupid, and logically, I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

“Does this have to do with what happened earlier tonight?” I nod and pop the last of the donut into my mouth. He says, “Listen, kiddo. I’m not sure what was going on, but you two were out on that sidewalk for a long time. By the time you made it inside, I was thoroughly confused. So, if you’re seeking advice from me, I’m gonna need some details.”

Fair enough. “Here’s a little background to catch you up to speed. Rascal and I actually met him in the park last Monday. Don’t tell Mr. Clark, but Rascal slipped right out of his collar. It’s not the first time, and I’ve warned Mr. Clark about this happening before, but he insists Rascal is good when he walks him in the mornings.” I lean down, and whisper, “I’m not trying to badmouth Rascal, but he’s become a little terror lately.”

I tap my chin, realizing things are much clearer in the lights of the bright lobby. If I think about it for more than a few seconds, the only connection I can make is Andrew. Meeting him is when Rascal’s . . . let’s just call them troubles began. And mine, if we’re being honest. Obviously, Andrew is the problem, but I keep this revelation to myself.

“Anyway,” I start again, “Rascal became a little escape artist and took off running faster than I could keep up. He ran straight to Andrew, who was lying in the grass at the park. I have no idea what he was doing, by the way. Enjoying the sunshine, maybe avoiding work, who knows?” I shrug.

“Okay, so . . .?”

“Right. So Rascal runs through poop that someone didn’t pick up, which is really annoying. We share a jinx, and then I face-plant into his shirt. This all happened in one week.” Gil’s feet are back on the floor, and he’s looking at me with confusion wrinkled into his remarkably smooth skin for a man of his age. When a polite pause allowing him to inject a question isn’t taken advantage of, I continue because he is clearly keeping up. “So what I’m saying is—”

“Yes, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I didn’t expect to beg the man to be my friend, but here we are. He’s upstairs, living in the same building as me and probably sleeping soundly while I’m down here asking for advice.”

His brows knit together. “What’s the question?”

I sigh and begin pacing. I thought since he had a daughter, he’d understand the emotional turmoil of putting myself on the line for this stranger who took pity on me because I’m in need of a friend.

Clearly, I’m going to have to spell this out for him.

Stopping in front of his desk, I place both hands on the counter, and ask, “Do you see me hiking the Appalachian Trail or becoming a reality star?”

“Um, I don’t really like either of those options.”

“Because of Andrew, I obviously have to leave the building for an extended period of time, basically until he moves on, so I need your help deciding where to go.”

“What happens if you stay?”

I raise my arms wide before dropping them to my sides again. “There’s a strong chance, and I say this from experience, that I’ll run into him again. And then what? We actually become friends? Have you seen that man? He’s gorgeous and has these flecks of gold in his brown eyes, like little buried treasures he’s personally hidden for me to find. And I don’t know why his grumpiness is so entertaining to me, but it inspires me to want to make him smile.” Melting against the counter, I hold my arms wide and press my cheek against the cold marble. “What is wrong with me, Gil?”

There’s silence. That’s not unusual, but when it drags out, I tilt my head up, resting my chin on the hard surface instead. “What is it?” I ask.