Page 92 of Blame it on the Bet
Iron Angels Construction, Duluth, MN.
And, just like that, I’m not worried about the time I’m making or what I’ll say when I get there. Because now I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, thanks to the angels.
Chapter Forty-One
HENNESSY
I spend most of the night tossing and turning, fighting my way through one bizarre nightmare after another. By the time the sun starts to peek through the window, I’m actually relieved to have an excuse to get out of bed. I flip on the Weather Channel to find that the fast-moving storm traveled clear across Minnesota and into Wisconsin overnight, so there’s no reason my relocation can’t happen today.
No excuses, Hennessy.
I roll out of the frameless bed and drag myself to my feet, skirting around the cardboard mountains as I make my way to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later I emerge feeling considerably more human with freshly-brushed teeth and washed hair. A glance at the clock on the stove tells me I have about two hours to kill before the truck arrives, one hour before I can find a cup of coffee anyplace, and maybe half hour before my sisters renew their phone campaign to get me to stay.
I open the fridge door and peer in, not sure what it is that I’m expecting there. It looks exactly the same as it did last night when I wanted a snack. A few olives in a jar, the dregs of a ketchup bottle, and a sad little slice of American cheese. I’m considering how to integrate the three items into some semblance of breakfast when I hear it.
I turned off the television in the bedroom—I’m certain of it. The screen on my phone is dark, so the sound’s not coming from there. I lean closer to the wall I share with my neighbor, wondering if she’s playing loud music—which would be unusual for her, especially at this hour of the morning. But it’s not coming from there, either.
Is that…Peter Gabriel?
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I walk to the far end of the apartment and look out the window.
Oh, who am I kidding? I know exactly why I do it. That movie. That silly movie with John Cusack and the boom box. But what is it that I think I’m going to find out there on the sidewalk three floors down? Some guy—who may or may not be Bryan—playing a song in an attempt to win my heart?
Hah! Yeah, like that Hallmark Channel nonsense ever happens in real life!
Still, I look. No guy. And still, the music is coming from somewhere nearby. I close my eyes and listen, trying to triangulate where it’s coming from. It’s not loud enough to be inside the apartment. It’s more like someone’s standing in the hallway…
I practically knock over a boxful of books in my rush to get to the front door. I know within five feet that I’ve got it
right this time, and when I look through the peephole, I gasp at what I see.
Standing there, looking bedraggled and exhausted, is Bryan Truitt. He’s holding his iPhone up to the door, and I can just make out the tiny image of Peter Gabriel’s album So on the screen. Bryan doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t ring. He just stands there, phone up, waiting for me to hear him and open the door.
I do.
“In your eyes, I see the doorway to a thousand churches…” Peter Gabriel sings just loud enough so as not to bother my neighbors.
“That’s my favorite line,” he says. “The doorway to a thousand churches line…”
“Yeah, that is a pretty amazing image,” I agree, playing along as he pretends this is a perfectly natural situation.
“I get it.”
“What?” I ask, neither of us budging.
“I get what he’s saying. Because I see that when I look into your eyes.”
I stare at him, my breath suddenly caught in my throat. “You…you do?” I ask, sounding tentative.
He nods.
“I do. And that’s why I’m here.”
“It is?”
Jeez, could I be any lamer? He nods again.
“Can I come in?”
