Page 35 of The Likelihood Of You

It was a rush to get from the production lot to my apartment, and then go to where I was taking Florence for the evening, but I did it with at least twenty minutes spare to change my outfit, twice. Having Nate with me made it slightly easier, although ten precious minutes were taken up solely by Bagel attacking him, nicely, because she hadn’t seen him for a while.

After what happened last night, I wanted to make sure she was taken care of, and Uncle Nate was the perfect guy for the job.

Once I’d swapped my jeans for some russet cargo's and a loose white tee (probably not the best choice to wear white while baking, but it wasn't like I was thinking clearly anyway), I slipped on my Adidas Sambas and bomber jacket and headed out the door.

I’d figured out last night that mine and Flo’s apartments weren’t too far away from each other, so instead of taking my car, I grabbed the baseball cap from my jacket pocket and decided to walk instead. Itwas mid-October, which meant the streets were crowded, but not as crowded as they’d be by December, so this was probably one of the last times I’d get to walk around freely without being stopped and spotted three times a minute.

Fall in New York I could handle; it was always pretty, apart from the days where the rain lasted eight hours, and all the leaves turned to mush, but luckily it wasn’t like that tonight. The air was still and crisp, still cold, but the burnt orange and muddy brown leaves that were barely hanging on to their branches, painted amongst a pale orange sky, took my mind off it.

It took my mind off my shaky hands, too.

The twenty minutes I spent cradled in Nate’s egg chair did nothing for that pool of nerves in my stomach. I even tried out his and had no luck draining it, either. I couldn’t understand why I was so nervous. I wasn’t even this nervous last night, and somehow I made it through having her draped across my body, her face all wet and glowy, cheeks red the way I seemed to like them, and not once did I feel scared about what was happening.

Not even when my eyes betrayed me and dropped to part of her chest that was exposed as she lay there, and amongst the other realisations last night, I also realised that there was no mystery left when she wore a square neckline.

I knew my nerves had conjured up because I was going to admit how I felt about her, to her face, and not knowing how she would react was making my heart scarily close to flatlining.

I make it outside Flo’s apartment building with five minutes to spare until I’m supposed to get her, and as I pull my phone from my pocket, I see that I’ve got a few texts to respond to.

One is from Nate, who sent me a picture of Bagel curled up on his couch watchingHocus Pocus,with some treats by her head and her favourite fluffy pumpkin blanket draped over her, which makes me grin like an idiot. Another is from my group chat with my Moms, explaining all the details for the opening of their second Pin’s store in Boston that they want me to go to, which I’d be more than happy to do.

Then I scroll to the third text…which is from an unknown number.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

Today 17:56PM

I need your help!

I let out a snort, startling a passerby. It didn’t strike me as weird. I’ve had messages like this before. Usually, they’re from creeps who’ve found my number from some musty corner of the dark web, saying that they’d leak my number if I didn’t send them money.

My favourite was when I got a text saying they were holding my Dad hostage, and wouldn’t release him until I Venmo’d them one million dollars.

I don’t even have a Dad.

So I was about to brush it off and block the number, when I clocked something.

The number… it lookedfamiliar.

And then it hit me: it was the same number that had called me twice yesterday.

And again this morning. Somehow, though, I feel like I’d seen the number before and recall hearing it somewhere. But maybe it was just because this had happened so many times that I was confusing the number now. It was most likely nothing. I brush the weird feelings away, then realise I’ve got a minute before I’m supposed to knock on Flo’s door and pick her up.

I headed inside and up the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time and eventually reaching her apartment on the fourth floor. I lift my clammy hand to the door and knock three times before a distant “It’s open!” comes from the other side. I push the door open and peek my head around the corner, seeing no sign of Florence and assuming she was upstairs.

I tilt my head upwards, where I catch her standing in front of the mirrors that were stuck to her wall, dragging something across her lips and popping them agonisingly slow, before she tosses whatever it was onto her bed and turns around to face me, leaning over her balcony as she did.

“Hey! I won’t be long. I just need to find some shoes.” She shouted down at me, and all I could do was nod.

She was wearing the outfit she wore the day I met her: a brown tartan skirt that fell to the middle of her bare thighs and a thin cream sweater, her hair loosely curled. It zapped every word out of me and made my mouth dry like it had done the first time I saw her wearing it. Only this time, I knew who she was, what kind of girl lay beneath the different fabrics, and why she was here.

It reminded me of how much I knew I liked her back then. Even with all the doubts crowding my head.

Before I knew it, she was downstairs with me, tying her shoelaces on the edge of her couch, then grabbing her bag of baking equipment and ingredients and joining me by the door.

“You look nice.” She said, looking up at me.

“So do you… look nice… you look really… nice.”

---