Page 1 of Wish I Were Here
If only I could have predicted the disaster that would be waiting for me when I stepped off the elevator, I would have taken the stairs. Instead, I rode down to the lobby from my eighth-floor apartment because the last thing I want is to show up to meet my brand-new boss with my blouse sweaty and my hair flying.
My wide-eyed gaze slides to the coffee stain now seeping into my high-waisted herringbone pants. “No!” I balance my dripping travel mug in one hand, lid askew, and fumble in my laptop bag with the other, grabbing a mini pack of Kleenex. From somewhere over my shoulder, the buoyant beat of “Build Me Up Buttercup” drifts into my consciousness.
“Oh… hell,” comes a sheepish voice to my right. “I’m sorry, Catherine.”
I don’t even have to look up to know who is speaking. Luca Morelli. Of course he’s responsible for this mocha-colored mess dripping down my thigh. Just like he was responsible for the bike I tripped over in the mail room last week and my dry cleaning that disappeared the week before that.
“It’s okay…” I focus on scrubbing at the stain, but it’snot okay, and those flimsy little squares are no match forthe majority of an extra-large latte. The tissue disintegrates, smearing mangled bits of paper into the fabric weave of my pants. “Oh no.” I can’t meet my new boss likethis.
“Wait, stop, you’re just making it worse.” Luca swiftly rounds the lobby’s front desk and reaches underneath, pulling out a neatly folded rag and a bottle of water.
I take one last futile swipe.How could it be worse?
A moment later, Luca is standing in front of me, holding out the rag. “Try this instead.”
I toss the mangled tissue in the trash, and when I reach for the cloth in his outstretched hand, my eyes focus on the burst of vibrant tattoos covering the length of his forearm. I’ve never noticed them before, and the delicate lines of flora and birds are unexpected and beautiful. He must have rolled up the sleeves of his black doorman uniform when he was doing…whateverit was he was doing… when he came crashing into me.
“Why were you…” I wave my hand in the direction of the elevator. “Doing the jitterbug in the middle of the lobby?”
Luca uncaps the water bottle and takes my wrist to pour some into the rag. His hand is warm, his grip firm, and I stare at the etched panels of a monarch butterfly’s wings as it lands on an echinacea flower. I’m drawn to those vibrant colors, and with him leaning close like this, I feel a strange pull to the man who displays them, too.
“Technically, it was the Carolina shag,” he says, yanking me back to my senses.
Why am I standing here staring at his forearms and not on a bus halfway to the university? I lift my gaze from his tattoos to his face, which hovers a good eight inches abovemine. But focusing on those dark eyes and bronze skin isn’t helping. So I step away from Luca, swiping at my stained pants. While I manage to dislodge the bits of shredded tissue, the coffee stain doesn’t budge.
“Mrs. Goodwin was the 1964 Myrtle Beach Carolina shag champion.” Luca hitches his chin at a silver-haired Black lady bopping in the corner. Considering her advanced age, she’s pulling off some surprisingly elaborate footwork.
“Hello, honey. Sorry about your pants.” Mrs. Goodwin gives me a wave and then steps her left orthopedic shoe over her right to execute a graceful spin across the scuffed tile floor.
“Mrs. Goodwin was teaching me her moves, and I wasn’t expecting anyone to step off the elevator right at that moment.” Luca holds up his hands in awho knew?gesture.
I give up on the coffee stain and drop the wet cloth into his open palm, my frustration growing. When I came to the DeGreco to tour the available apartment, there were at least three other people who were also interested. So I knew I was lucky to be the one to land this affordable rental in a quiet building. The handsome, charming doorman seemed like a huge bonus. I looked forward to the extra security at the front door, especially after growing up in a series of sketchy apartments.
And—I remember a brief flash of attraction that first time we met—maybe that isn’t the only reason I liked having a handsome, charming doorman.
But it turns out that I’m in greater danger of bodily harm when Luca is around than I am when he’s disappeared for hours at a time. I press my palm to the dark splotch on mypants and do my best to be grateful that at least the coffee didn’t burn my leg. “Of course,” I murmur through gritted teeth. “Why would you expect people in a twelve-story building to be riding the elevator at eight in the morning?”
“Well, to be fair, it must be broken, because the numbers over the door usually light up and the bell dings on each floor, letting me know people are coming.” Luca shakes out the rag, and I’m treated to another colorful flash of forearm. “I’ll need to get Dante in here to fix it.”
“Please do.” I cross my arms primly. “And while you’re at it, maybe you could brush up on the building’s manual of rules and regulations. I am sure that ‘no dancing in the lobby’ is detailed there.”
To be honest, I amnotsure that “no dancing in the lobby” is detailed in the building’s manual of rules and regulations. But Iamsure that—despite the fact that he’s served as the building’s doorman for much longer than the month I’ve lived here—Luca has never actually read the manual of rules and regulations and probably won’t go and check it now. I know this because he seems to do whatever he pleases, whenever he pleases. Generally, that boils down to a lot of fraternizing with the building residents and very little manning of the door. Normally, I do my best to ignore his loose interpretation of his job description, except when I can’t.
Like today.
“Damn it,” I mutter, glancing down at the stain on my pants again. It’s really setting in now, and I don’t think there’s any way to save this outfit. I check the time on my phone, and my heart sloshes like my coffee did moments ago.I’d carefully timed out my morning to arrive at the bus stop ten minutes before the 54 was scheduled to arrive. That bus would have gotten me to campus thirty minutes before my breakfast meeting with the dean of the mathematics department, which would have allowed me five minutes to walk to the café, five minutes for a stop in the bathroom, and twenty minutes to go over my notes before he arrived. And just in case I forgot—which I won’t—I printed out the schedule and tucked it into the front pocket of my bag along with my list of things to accomplish today.
I do some quick calculations in my head. Can I take the elevator back upstairs, change into a clean pair of trousers, and still make it to the bus on time?
My breath hitches. Do I evenhavea clean pair of trousers? The clothes the dry cleaner said they’d left with my doorman—aka Luca—never did turn up, and since my job doesn’t officially start for a few more weeks, I had plenty of time to buy new ones. Or so I thought. If I don’t figure this out in the next three minutes, I’m going to miss the bus.
I take a deep breath. I don’t have a car yet. I’d hoped to be able to afford a car payment after a few paychecks came through from my new job. The job I am currently running late for.
I fumble with my phone for my rideshare app.
Except there’s still the issue of the pants.
Hands shaking, I pop the lid back on my half-full mug of coffee and thrust it into Luca’s grasp. “Hold this, please.” And then I run for the elevator, slamming my finger on the button and pressing it over and over, as if that will somehow make it come faster. I look up. The panel of numbers thatusually indicates the elevator’s floor remains dark. “What’s happening?”
