The Real

The Real by Kate Stewart



For my readers, thank you will never be enough. And for those who don’t believe love is a fictional character.





The car came out of nowhere.

Actually, it was a cab, and it slammed on its brakes, skidding long black tire tracks on the asphalt while laying on the horn.

I bounded through the intersection in my yoga pants and Nikes and turned to give the driver the one-finger salute. He saluted right back and then continued on his way.

I did, too.

This time, I made sure to look both ways before crossing any streets because Chicago was a fricking hazard to my health. I loved it, though.

I loved the buildings scraping the sky, the murky smog that lingered close to the horizon, and the near-constant noise and activity. It made me feel alive.

In a world where I was constantly jeopardizing that status, I guess that was pretty important.

As I stepped onto the curb, I noticed the man huddled between twin shops on the corner. My heart squeezed a little in relief.

“Bennie,” I chastised, as I bent to give him a twenty-dollar bill. “Where were you last week?”

He smiled up at me, his clothes reeking of stale cigarettes and a life of street-dwelling.

“Hey Abbie, I got things to do. You know that.” He took the money and thanked me. “You’re good to me.”

“I worry about you,” I told him. “Don’t disappear on me. And don’t go spending that on your girlfriends, Bennie.”

He nodded, eyeing the money and I opened the door to my favorite café with a jingle of the bells. Though downtown Chicago had plenty to offer, I was perfectly happy spending half of my Saturday morning in my neighborhood just outside the city. Sunny Side was a local gem that sat a few streets over from my three-flat in Wicker Park. Nestled in my favorite plush and overstuffed pleather chair, I worked on a kitschy macaroni-topped table. I found I got more done on that wobbly table than I ever could in the three-story townhouse I’d spent a fortune remodeling. I could have saved thousands and ordered three gourmet lattes a day, but when winter set in, I knew that office could be a refuge. For the moment, I was perched in the homey surroundings of the café.

Large white bulbs hung from the ceiling while below, abandoned books and crates acted as makeshift partitions between the varied sized tables. The interior walls were lined with endless rows of chipped and overused coffee cups with a catchphrase to match every mood.

I inhaled the smell of freshly-ground coffee beans wafting through the cafe as I sipped on my much-needed latte in my borrowed mug. It read I Do What I Want with a pencil sketch of a cat stretching its middle fingers. I hadn’t slept much last night; instead, I freaked myself out with every strange noise or inkling, just like I had done every night for the past year. I envisioned every neighbor in a thirty-mile radius as being a serial killer or rapist, and then I watched Snapped to distract myself, which instead, only perpetuated my obsessive paranoid cycle.

It was a problem.

My paranoia and my suspicions that everyone had a motive that included deception or worse.

And Sunny Side, with its never-ending fountain of caffeine, had become my refuge every Saturday. The place I could come to and pretend I was a functioning part of society where my issues didn’t exist.

I dove into my Saturday routine, sticking an earbud into my ear and immersing myself in the safety of the public place and my private world of music.

It was hard to say how much later it was when I felt like I was being watched.

My ability to leave reality behind the door of the café was absolute. It very well could’ve been hours.

I felt it, though.

The stare.

Hesitantly, I looked up.

Then froze.

The Bible states that God created the world in six days. So, when it came to time relevance and divine creation, it stood to reason that the Creator took an extra millisecond on the man watching me sip my third latte.

Now, I’m not that kind of woman—the kind who trips over herself and fumbles through her words when a handsome man glances her way. I learned that lesson in a very hard way, and I hadn’t forgotten.

To the frustration of everyone close to me and with the stubbornness that any mule would be proud of, I had refused to notice any specimen of the opposite sex ever since.

Forget that he had rugged, supremely masculine features—chiseled, etched, sculpted, and surreal. Add that to unmistakable height and broad stature, apparent by the way he dwarfed the small, round table that sat in front of him. Mix that with full lips and an impressive set of white teeth. All of this confirmed on the seventh day, God rested, and it was good.

But what elicited a storm in my soul and calm in my heart were his ocean-green eyes.

He smiled. Grinned, actually.

Dear Lord. That smile…

I looked away. Focus. You have work to do. You don’t know him. He could be a psycho.

I sipped at my latte, but the cup was now empty.

Internally, I compiled a mental list of flaws so I wouldn’t look up at him again.

Neither of us could look away. Then he flashed that all-knowing smile again. Shit!

Abbie. God. Get a grip. He’s probably a skirt-chaser and nothing more.

He wiped the top of his nose. Twice. Subconsciously, I did the same and came away with the remnants of my caramel latte.

Damn it!

It was all over my nose and chin, and I knew that my hair was a wreck. And that was a kind assessment of my appearance. It was slob day—my Saturday ritual—and slob days were non-negotiable.

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