Part One
*Alice*
“I’m doing it!”
“Alice—”
“No.” I jabbed a solitary finger in the air. “No, Jackie. You listen to me. Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“The determination in my voice? The lack of doubt? That’s the sound of willpower. I’m doing it this time. I’m in it to win it.”
“Oh, Alice.” Even through the phone I could detect the sympathy, the worry, the compassion, and perhaps just a wee bit of exasperation.
“Don’t you ‘Oh, Alice’ me. Milo is coming home tomorrow, and I’m ready for him this time. I’m so ready. I wrote a letter.” A letter which I’d already placed on his kitchen table along with a new houseplant—an anthurium, which had heart-shaped leaves. I’d wondered if the symbolism was a little too on the nose, but oh well. Too late now. He loved plants, and I loved him.
The day had come, and I was seizing it!
“A letter,” my sister said, like leaving a handwritten love letter wasn’t one of the most revolutionary things someone could do. I felt like a Bolshevik, a real radical, just . . . you know. Less murdery.
“Yes! A letter!” Spinning in a circle, I took one more look at Milo’s apartment to ensure all was as it should be and then skipped to his bathroom.
When he left on his months-long work trips, I was his designated plant-watcher and mail picker-upper. I also ran his sinks and flushed his toilets because dry sewer pipes sometimes stank, and prolonged stagnant water is never a good thing.
Sometimes I’d hang out in the apartment on my own, reading books or working. I loved his apartment. It felt like being with Milo but without constantly having to fight the eruption of butterflies every time our eyes met or we touched. Or he laughed. Or smiled. Or spoke. Or breathed.
Point was, I felt close to him here, even when he was gone. Large photographic art prints hung on the walls, remote and beautiful places he’d visited and told me about upon his return. His décor, the colors, were all cool and relaxing—sand, pebble gray, stone blue—and no matter how long he’d been gone, the bathroom always smelled faintly of his aftershave.
“So, you’re leaving a letter, exactly like the last time,” came my sister’s flat voice. She paired it with a sigh.
“No.” I ceased sniffing the bathroom and flipped off the light. “This is completely different. Like I said, this letter is handwritten. I can’t hack into his email server and delete it from his inbox this time, or hack into his Facebook account and remove it from his personal messages. Or hack into his Instagram, or his—”
“Yes. I know. I was present each time to watch over your shoulder because you wanted a witness to watch you not look at or read any of his other messages. What night should I keep free so I can watch you do it again.”
It’s true. My sister had been in the room with me each of the other eleven times. She’d watched me get in, delete my message, and get out. And yes, I realize hacking into anyone’s personal accounts is an extreme violation of privacy, which is why I’d told Milo about each of the hackings.
I’d say, “Milo, I hacked into your Instagram account last night and deleted a message I sent you. Jackie was there to ensure I didn’t look at anything else.”
And he’d say, “Okay,” and shrug those broad shoulders, a quizzical-looking smile on his handsome lips, his green, sparkly eyes unconcerned because he trusted me. Then he would offer me wine, which I always turned down. When we spent time together, he was always drinking wine and I was always turning it down, but he continued to offer.
It’s not that I didn’t like wine. I did. A lot. I drank it when we went out with other people, when it was more than just the two of us. I just didn’t want to drink wine in Milo’s apartment when it was just me and him. Sober, I was honest, but not too honest. Like how some people show their ID when buying alcohol even though the checkout person probably wasn’t going to ask for it? That was me when I drank, but instead of an unsolicited ID, I handed over honesty.
I supposed, after fifteen years of friendship, Milo’s trust was warranted. Also, he knew I was a weirdo. So . . .
“So, tonight? Tomorrow?” My sister no longer attempted to conceal her exasperation. “When should I be available for your inevitable panic attack?”
“You’re not listening, Jackie. I can’t hack a piece of paper.” Picking up my coat from the couch where I’d draped it, I balanced my cell against my shoulder and shoved my arms through the sleeves.
“Okay, paper. Wow. But what’s going to keep you from ripping it up ten minutes before he arrives? You’ve had a key to his place forever.”
“Ah-ha!” I pulled my key ring out of my coat pocket and, still balancing the phone between my shoulder and jaw after adjusting for my coat, I unclipped his key. “I’ve thought of everything. You see, after one has chickened out eleven times, outsmarting oneself is difficult, but not impossible.”
“In English, please.”
“I’m leaving the note inside his apartment.”
She made a small sound of weariness. “You’re talking in circles. I don’t see how this makes a difference. You. Have. A. Key.”
“But I’m slipping the key under his door so I can’t sneak back inside and destroy the letter before he sees it.” While I said the words, I walked out of Milo’s apartment, shut the door, locked the dead bolt, and slipped the key under the door. There. All done. Man, that felt good.
“This time I’m serious. No backing out. No take-backsies. I might be a coward, but I am a persistent, determined coward.”
“Okay. Okay. I see you’ve thought this out. But Alice . . .” I heard her shift in her seat or maybe stand. “You are my sister, and you know I love you.”
“Yes. I know. I love you.” Marching down the hall away from Milo’s door, I stood tall and proud. This was it. This is it! GAH!
“And you know I think Milo is hot and charming and brilliant.”
“You think he’s hot?” I paused at the door leading to the stairwell. He lived on the third floor of a twenty-five-floor building. I always took the stairs.
“Sorry. Sometimes his hot professor vibe is all I see,” my sister said. “He seems like a lovely, lovely person. But he’s also hot.”
I guess Milo was hot. Actually, no. He was definitely hot.
But on the list of reasons of why I loved Milo, his hotness was not even in the top ten. He was hilarious, often when I least expected it, stealthy, catching me off guard. He was smart—so smart—and loved to learn. He loved to share what he learned. I never grew tired of talking to him, and we always had too much to talk about; our evenings together often ran past midnight.
Also, he liked me for me. He seemed to sincerely enjoy my company and value my opinion. He asked me questions and always seemed interested in my responses, even when it took me a half hour to explain the context for my answer before I gave it.
And, yes, in eleventh place, he possessed an extremely pleasing exterior: jade green eyes with starbursts of gold, dark black lashes and dark brown curly hair on top of a face with sharp cheekbones and a square jaw. He’d rowed in college and kept up with it, even now owning an ergometer. He also climbed mountains and scaled the sides of cliffs whenever he traveled.