No One Knows Us Here(21)

“You’re really good, you know.”

“Thanks,” he said. I could tell what he was thinking: that my opinion didn’t mean much, considering that, until a few moments ago, I hadn’t known I was listening to a viola and not a violin. Sam sat up straighter in his chair. “You can hear me—through the windows?”

“It’s an old building.”

“Are they open now?”

“What?”

“Your windows.”

“Why?”

“Yes or no.”

I thought about it. The apartment had radiant heat, no thermostats to control the temperature. That meant I had slept every night with the bed pulled up under the window, so I could close my eyes and feel delicate drops of rain mist my face. “Yes.”

Sam slammed his coffee mug on the table. “Follow me.”

Back in Sam’s bedroom, he unlatched the window and pushed up on the sash, letting in a chilly, rain-scented gust of air. He leaned out the window and looked down. And then he just climbed out. One minute he was in the room with me, the next he was outside, waving at me through the glass.

I stood staring at him for a second, disbelieving. Then I rushed over and looked down to see Sam standing on a crumbling old ledge of the building, not more than six inches wide. This was a Victorian building. That ledge had to have been more than a hundred years old. Our eyes met through the glass. We were facing each other, my hands pressed up to his. “What are you doing?”

He pointed in the direction of my apartment and began inching over there. “Meet me in the hallway,” he said.

This guy was going to kill himself performing this Spiderman routine for me. “It’s raining. We’re four stories high.”

When he disappeared from view, I leaned out his window and saw him making his way across the building like James Bond on a rescue mission.

I couldn’t watch. I ran out of the bedroom and out of his apartment, making sure to prop his door open with a shoe. With my ear pressed to the outside of my apartment door, I listened. Thumps. Footsteps. Then my door opened and Sam walked through. He ran his fingers through his hair. His faded jeans were dotted with dark splatters of rain.

“That was really stupid,” I said. “You could have killed yourself.” I threw my arms around him then and held him tightly, resting my face against his chest. I wasn’t sure what had come over me. I wasn’t much of a hugger. The wool of his sweater scratched at my cheek. He smelled like something comfortable and worn, tucked away for years in a cedar chest. I’d chosen an awkward way to hug him, with his hands at his sides. I was pinning his arms to his torso, so he couldn’t hug me back. Somehow he managed to free his hands from his pockets, and then he was patting me on the back, like, “Okay, lady, that’s enough,” so I let him go.

I offered to buy him lunch. It was the least I could do, to thank him.

“I don’t know—” he started.

“I can’t do lunch,” I blurted out, suddenly aware of the time. “Rain check?”

He frowned, but then he nodded once, curtly. “Rain check,” he echoed, but I was already rushing back into my apartment, peeling off the robe as I flew down my hall and into my bedroom.

Two minutes later, I slipped a note under Sam’s door on my way out: “Rain check,” it said. “My place, seven o’clock.” I drew the outline of a cloud around the words, and raindrops spilling out of the cloud.



I was ten minutes late to my noon appointment with Leo. He wanted to meet me, to go over the details of our arrangement. I didn’t have time to figure out a ride or catch a bus, so I had run all the way there. I was panting with exertion by the time I checked into the Lookinglass offices.

Alejandro made me wait another ten minutes in the lobby, which was just as well. It gave me a chance to catch my breath. When he finally did come get me, he led me into a conference room. We were surrounded by glass—the windows faced east, with views of the river. We would have a view of the mountain, too, on a clear day. Today was not one of those days. A gauzy blanket of fog levitated over the river.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said for the second time.

Alejandro’s eyes traveled from my feet up to my face before he gestured for me to sit down at the end of a long conference table. I’d managed to throw on a proper top, to pull my hair up into a messy bun.

I gave him a level look in response.

But then Alejandro gave me a slight nod. A nod! “Typically, HR would take care of this kind of thing,” he said, referring to a stack of paperwork he’d laid on the table between us. “Leo wants to deal with this personally.”

“You look really good today.” No response. “I really like that shirt.” Alejandro was wearing what appeared to be a French sailor’s shirt, the kind of garment I’d expect to see paired with those navy-blue high-waisted sailor pants. “Is it French?” I asked, when my compliment got no reaction. “It looks French.”

Alejandro allowed himself an almost undetectable smile. “Yes, it is.” With his left hand, he reached over and touched the sleeve of his right arm, as if to remind himself of the material, a trusty cotton cloth.

The doors of the conference room opened. “Está bien, Alejandro,” Leo said. “I’ll take it from here.” Then he said something in rapid Spanish.