Page 34 of The Other Side
13
Istill had half my midterms to grade when the weekend came around. Having unintentionally woken up early on Saturday morning, I decided it would be more productive to actually get something done, as opposed to lying in bed and thinking about Chance.
I was no closer to figuring out what he was up to, but I was at least sure that a romantic entanglement was quite unlikely, though I still worried about what danger both of them thought they might be in. It felt as though the answer was on the tip of my tongue, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t figure out how to arrange the pieces to make them fit together to form a bigger picture.
Rolling out of bed, I refused to change out of my pajamas, wanting to be as comfortable as possible.
I glanced up at the string dangling from the trapdoor to the lounge while I brushed my teeth in the bathroom.
I missed my lounge. I was going stir-crazy having only my apartment to occupy.
“Screw Chance Harper,” I declared after spitting out my toothpaste into the sink. “It’s my lounge. Not his.”
I scurried about my room, making a cup of coffee, gathering my papers, and tidying as I went.
It was chilly when I at last made it upstairs, and the grey light streaming through the windows from a gloomy autumn sky made it feel that much colder. I regretted not bringing my sweatshirt up with me, but I had blankets on the sofa, and the room would warm up considerably once I got a fire going.
The lounge didn’t look any different since I had last been up there, but the energy had shifted, and I could almost smell the spice of Chance’s cologne in the air, confirming that he’d been there. It rankled me that he knew my secret. It felt as though his knowledge of the space had somehow tainted it.
I was surprised, but pleased, to find that Chance had more than replenished the woodpile next to the fire. I scowled as I felt my heart flutter at the thought of Chance doing so to make things easier for me.
Once the fire was blazing, I found a suitable record to play on thegramophone, I remembered, as I had been so eloquently schooled on the difference between the various models by Chance.
I was able to work in peace for a few hours before I was startled by a tap on the far window.
I groaned when a second tap sounded, and got up to traipse across the lounge, finding Chance struggling to juggle two steaming mugs with one hand as he used the other to attempted to lift the window on his own.
“Hey.” He beamed the moment I opened the window. He handed me both mugs so he could climb through without falling on his stupid, pretty face.
Chance was also dressed casually in a long-sleeve Henley that accentuated every single sinew of his muscular torso, arms, andshoulders. But that day he had opted for a pair of dark wash jeans instead of the pajama pants he had been sporting the first time he had invaded my space.
“What’s this?” I motioned to the mugs as I stepped back to allow him space to enter the room.
“A peace offering.” He chuckled sheepishly as he closed the window behind him, shutting out the cold air from outside.
I followed him as he started toward the far end of the room, but stopped abruptly alongside Chance as he wistfully gazed at the piano. “When do you think was the last time somebody played her?”
Her?
“Thirty or forty years.”
My eyes widened as he took a seat on the bench, dust puffing up from the velvet upholstery. Lifting the cover from the keys, he got out a few bars of “The Entertainer” but pulled his fingers back as the notes soured, wincing at the sound. “Hasn’t been tuned in longer than that.”
I said nothing. I hoped he couldn’t hear my heart thundering in my chest. An image of me sitting next to him on the bench, my head on his shoulder as he played a soft tune, flitted into my mind, but I quickly shoved it from my thoughts.
Chance stood from the bench and wandered toward the wall of books on the interior of the room. “Were the books already organized when you discovered them?” he asked vacantly, crouching down to read some of the titles on the bottom shelf.
“No,” I said quietly, fondly remembering the hours I had spent categorizing by genre, then alphabetizing, then organizing them neatly shelf by shelf.
“Really?” He looked at me over his shoulder. “I bet it took you forever.”
I nodded. I didn’t think he was making fun of me.
He smiled, seemingly impressed, but quickly turned back to the shelves. “Cool! Old yearbooks!” he exclaimed, grabbing a stack from one of the shelves.
I must have audibly gasped because he quickly replied, “Don’t worry, I’ll put them back where I found them.” He carried the books over to the study table on the opposite side of the room. “Come here.”
Without permission, my legs carried me to Chance. He held up his hand and gently took one of the still-steaming mugs from my hand.
