Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Friday, November 27th, 2017▪️
▪️Chicago, IL▪️
One beer and a half of a shriveled lemon stare at me from the shelf of the refrigerator. Fuck. The leftovers. I left the leftovers Ben offered me. If only I'd taken them from the Friendsgiving Bash or stopped to collect them this morning when the rideshare picked me up at Angie's and dropped me off at Ben's parents' garage, I might have actual pie in my mouth right now. But Angie, and not food, was on my mind. Then. Now, I'm starving. Starving, but not regretting ignoring the delicacies on the table. Angie is so much better than food.
Protein shake to the rescue, I rush around the living room of the rental house Mom, Louka, and I have been living in since we left downtown Chicago. The kitchen no longer looks like a bachelor squats here, and the dishwasher is running. I've no time for a shower, but I take a minute to remove the dark stubble off my cheeks. Mom says I look like my dad when I don't shave. So I always shave.
There's no time to run out for groceries. It'll be something to do after I deposit Mom and my little bro at the house. Thankfully, it's Friday, and Ben'll have a new iteration of his quest for perfect pizza for me to try at our Game Night tonight. He nailed it several weeks ago, but why tell Ben? Let him look for that Holy Pizza Grail, because I'm not dumb enough to stop the supply of free pizza every Friday night.
I wish I could've spent today with Angie, but I promised Mom I'd pick them up at the airport. A week in the house by myself was both fan-fucking-tastic and unsettling. With my new job, I could, for the first time in my life, afford to move out, but I don't see any reason for it. I've been the man of the house for ten years, and I'll stay for another ten, or as long as Mom needs me.
I bypass my bike, start Mom's minivan, and merge onto the highway. Although Buffalo Springs is great for Louka's high school and close to Mom's job at the salon, riding Beauty to work takes over an hour. The drive to O'Hara isn't as long, even in the Black Friday traffic, but parking at the airport takes ages. I race to baggage claim and push my way through the small crowd of people around the carousel when I spot Mom's short bob and Louka's head with ever-present giant headphones.
"Mom," I shout.
She turns and smiles. Her eyes are my eyes: the darkest brown, almost black irises lined with thick, long lashes. She's beautiful even after a long day of travel. The hug she gives me when I reach her is automatic.
"How was the flight?"
"Not a single empty seat. I didn't think so many people travelled the day after Thanksgiving." She keeps her eyes on the carousel, which begins to move, displaying the first pieces of luggage from the flight.
"Did Louka behave?" I glance at my brother, who is staring into his phone, playing a game, by the looks of how his hands move on the screen.
"Oh, we had a great time. UCLA is where his heart's at. He'll be crushed if he doesn't get in. I hoped he'd change his mind, but it was the opposite. There's no way he's going to stay in Chicago."
