The Real(13)

He winked, and I felt it to my toes.

Abbie’s Mac: If you weren’t having coffee with me, Coach, what would you be doing?

Cameron’s Mac: Running, playing basketball while talking shit about the Packers with my friend Max who thinks that Bears belong in the woods, not the NFL.

Abbie’s Mac: I hate the woods. Football fan too?

Cameron’s Mac: Fan of all sports. I don’t miss a Bears game. I have it running in a window on my screen.

Abbie’s Mac: I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended.

Cameron’s Mac: Flattered, definitely.

Dimples. Kill me.

Cameron’s Mac: What’s wrong with the woods?

Abbie’s Mac: Nothing good happens there.

Cameron’s Mac: Too bad. I love the outdoors.

Abbie’s Mac: Me too, as long as they are lined with cement and coffee shops.

Cameron’s Mac: Cute. Can I say something without you getting offended?

Abbie’s Mac: Maybe.

I got a smirk.

Cameron’s Mac: I knew that would be your answer. I’m saying it anyway. I like your freckles and I was hoping to see them today.

Abbie’s Mac: Really?

Cameron’s Mac: Really. I kind of miss the caramel on your chin too.

I lifted my cup and smeared a little from the side of it onto my chin, only too happy to oblige. I realized after what an idiotic move it was, but Cameron grinned as if all was right with the world. Neon yellow leaves swayed in the tree behind him and began to flood the ground.

Abbie’s Mac: I love the fall.

Cameron’s eyes didn’t stray from mine as he mouthed “Me too.” He hesitated briefly before he typed.

Cameron’s Mac: Want to go for a walk? Cement only, I promise.

Abbie’s Mac: Not yet.

He dropped it and typed.

Cameron’s Mac: What would you be doing if you weren’t here with me?

Memorizing the patterns of serial killers.

God, it was no wonder I lived alone. How would he ever think that was normal. Surely, I couldn’t be the only one fascinated by them. There were thousands of resources dedicated to the psychotic mind.

Fuck it.

Abbie’s Mac: Watching Snapped, reading a book about a serial killer, or buying another throw pillow for my place.

I hesitated before I hit send. But I did. While he read, his brows hit his hairline.

Cameron’s Mac: Wasn’t expecting that.

Abbie’s Mac: Yeah, I’m just letting my full-on, witchy-sanitarium, innate crazy show today. You should tip the barista on your way out.

His chest pumped with his chuckle.

Cameron’s Mac: It’s cool. I mean, that shit is fascinating to some, but I don’t know that it would be my Saturday ritual. What kind of witch is afraid of the woods?

I narrowed my eyes. He chuckled and was easily forgiven.

Cameron’s Mac: I hope you realize this unhealthy hobby may be the reason we aren’t going for a walk, or at that Bears game sipping a cold beer. It’s probably also why I’m not going to get to cop a feel or hold your hand by the end of the day. You know, watching that stuff will make you paranoid.

Abbie’s Mac: So I’ve been told. I’ve just been fascinated with it lately.

I kept my eyes down and Cameron seemed to read my posture. He didn’t press. Desperate to change the subject, I threw my first flirt.

Abbie’s Mac: What would you pretend to accidentally graze?

There was a challenge in my eyes, and his gaze heated in response.

Cameron’s Mac: I have an extensive list of places I would love to graze. How about a short list?

I nodded.

Cameron’s Mac: First, I’d figure out a way to brush my lips against your neck. You have a beautiful neck.

Abbie’s Mac: And then?

He shook his head.

Cameron’s Mac: Sorry, not giving away my tells this early in the game, pun intended.

Abbie’s Mac: What’s the score?

Cameron’s Mac: I have no fucking idea.

I lowered my eyes and let the zing rattle through my chest.





“Morning, Abbie,” Mrs. Zingaro chimed as I locked my front door. She was perched on her cement bench in front of her decayed garden.

“Morning, Mrs. Zingaro. How are you?”

My mother taught me to be polite, but “How are you?” was a loaded question with my tenant. I already knew too much about her. Far too much, including her extensive list of medical conditions that seemed to lengthen daily.

“I can’t eat dairy anymore, I think I’m allergic. I watched one of those shows about food allergies. And I’m having bunion surgery next month.”

And so, it begins.

Tucking my scarf into my jacket, I pulled out my gloves as I walked down the steps. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well, I love milk. So, it’s a shame.”

“Sure is. I need to get to work. You better put a jacket on, it’s pretty cold out here.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m waiting for my son. He’s supposed to pick me up.”

“Oh? Michael’s coming?” I asked, pulling on my gloves. “Please tell him I said hello.” Her son had been the one to rent the place for her and visited her every chance he got. He was a good man and probably one of the reasons I still had faith in them.