Page 179 of Callan

Our mouths collide into a tender, reassuring kiss.

I’m more than flattered that he trusts me enough to let me go.

We break the kiss, and he checks the time on his phone.

“Go. Or we’ll celebrate New Year’s Eve on the streets.”

“Sure.”

I blow him a kiss, tear away from him, and run, not looking back. A bit nervous that something might happen and I might not find him here when I return.

Swatting the negative thoughts away, I sprint to the entrance of my building, taking minimal precautions in terms of people following me or neighbors watching me.

This feels surreal.

But with him waiting for me at the corner of my building, I feel safe. So safe that I rush up the stairs, not even blinking when a door opens on the upper floor.

No fucking way.

It can’t be that woman again.

I dash to my floor and run to my apartment.

No, it was not.

The footsteps slowly trailed down the stairs.It must’ve been Mrs. Eisenhower. She’s slow like that.

Frantic, I open the door and push in.

A night light is turned on, and for a second, I’m under the impression that a man sits on the couch in my living room. A scream of surprise rolls off my lips before I realize my mind has played tricks on me.

So many things have happened this evening that I shouldn’t be surprised.

Locking the door, I try to think of something festive to wear.

I haven’t gone out in a while, so my closet is not exactly busting with party dresses.

It hadn't crossed my mind I’d need something fancy to wear tonight. A bit concerned with my limited options, I walk straight to the bathroom.

I take a quick shower before brushing my hair, putting on some makeup, tossing my cosmetic case into a small bag, and wrapping my bathrobe around my body while heading to the closet.

My eyes move quickly over the hangers.

Most of my clothes are perfect for work. Skirt suits. Dresses with hemlines that stop above the knee with no frills or sexiness of any kind.

I go through them with the speed and angst of a thief.

Too gray. Too dark. Too boring.

Ugh.

Sweat trickles down my back as long moments of indecisiveness wreck me.

I can’t find one garment fashioned in a smooth, silky fabric with a sexy design. Or a stretchy club dress.

My hopes of wearing anything remotely attractive are forever dashed when my eyes slide to a slim fit pantsuit.

I pick it up and run a critical eye over it.

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