Hooked 3 (Hooked #3)(18)

I packed swiftly, stuffing things into my suitcase. Drew got dressed, jeans and a t-shirt—something I’d never seen him wear. I watched as he casually maneuvered his suitcase toward the door and turned back toward me. “You ready?”

I supposed I was. I grabbed my suitcase and walked toward him. We boarded the elevator. For the first time since we had arrived, I didn’t look at the remarkable hotel like it was truly elegant. Instead, I saw it for what it truly was. I saw the stains on the counter—the coffee spills. I saw a maid fighting with another maid over by the fireplaces. I saw that a smart-looking, professor-type man in the bar area was reading Orange is the New Black instead of Proust. Everything felt false to me; nothing felt right. I shivered.


“You missing Chicago, Mister Thompson?” the valet asked him as he walked toward the Porsche, the keys dangling.

“Gotta get back home, Leon,” Drew answered, grinning that suave grin. “Thanks for treating Miss Molly and I here well this weekend. We’ll be back real soon.”

“It was our pleasure, sir,” Leon answered. He watched us as we sluggishly entered the car. At this point, I could feel the hangover overtaking my body, my mind. I draped my limbs over the car seat armrests, feeling like I was having an out-of-body experience. The man beside me; did I really know him? Did I really know myself?

“I think I’ll probably just drop you off at your apartment and head over to my new place, just to check it out,” Drew was saying to my left.

I nodded, trying to force myself to stop caring about him. “You should.”

“I’m looking forward to decorating it. You should come over sometime and help me imagine what it should look like. You know. I want it to be really elegant, really personalized. To suit my style.”

“I see,” I murmured. And I couldn’t help but become excited, if only for a moment, about the prospect of helping him arrange his new world, his new life in a grand, Chicago apartment—a place that I could never afford. It was like a fantasy, imagining us together in that illustrious place with the whole of the city rushing around us.

Of course, the past two days had been similar to this fantasy; just us, conquering the world. I had made ten thousand dollars at the black jack table, if only to hand it back to him, recognizing my true fate. I had made love to him, as if I were a different sort of person—the type of person who could fall in love. And, beyond anything else, I had laughed. I had seen wonders. If this wasn’t the gift for which I was searching in my (probable) last days in Chicago—if the loan didn’t work out, if the studio didn’t work out—then I could be happy. Maybe.



I fell asleep on the car ride back to Chicago. I woke up to the horns, the quakes of the city. I felt the power and the energy of the people. Blinking awake, I noted that Drew looked so regal sitting beside me, his sunglasses plastered to his eyes.

“You’re awake!” he said excitedly. “I’m nearing your apartment now. The city really came alive today. It’s so sunny. Probably the last nice day before winter, you know?”

I blinked wildly, trying to get a sense of the surrounding world. I saw children rushing around a playground; I saw dog walkers and runners. People sat outside drinking margaritas and pints. I reminded myself that it was Sunday, that the rest of the world had carried on with their usual days when I had escaped into that solace, the grand hotel, the vibrant casino.

Drew parked the car in front of the apartment building, and no valet came rushing out. Real life awaited. I clasped my hands together in front of my stomach, peering at him as he raced to my side to let me out. I allowed my feeble legs to stand beside him on the sidewalk; I watched as he removed the suitcase from the back of the car. He set it next to my shoe and leaned down to kiss me, lightly, on the cheek. “I had a great weekend with you. You’re—you’re spectacular,” he murmured.

But I didn’t know how to take it. So I simply sent him a thank you, a nod. I smiled serenely and then walked to the door of the apartment building—the place he would no longer call home. Perhaps he never had. I walked up the steps, dragging my suitcase behind me. I wasn’t sure why I was crying. I felt such a desolate loneliness as I hoisted myself up to the fourth floor alone.

I entered my apartment to find Boomer on the table, to find that Mel had come—just as I knew she would—to feed the cat and give him water. She left me a note on the table. “Love you, Mol. Fed Boom. Let me know how the loan comes through. Mel and Jackson.” To the side, Jackson had scrawled something in purple crayon, leaving his mark. What a strange thing, that a baby and a mother had brought brightness and laughter to my desolate apartment.

I went to bed early that evening. I left my windows wide open, allowing the surprisingly warm wind to waft into my apartment. I had been feeling stifled, and each time the new city oxygen entered, I could breathe a bit easier.



CHAPTER ELEVEN

The next morning I woke up early and went for a run, trying to balance out the wayward feelings of my brain. I ran by the new studio, where I was certain I could begin construction later that month. I tried to imagine teaching new students there, loving my life there. It was difficult to see into the future.

I jogged on, past the many parks, the rushing and talking people. It was still very early in the morning, but I knew already that it was going to be another brilliant, hot day—another Indian summer.