Heading East (Part 2 of 2) (The True North Series) (5 page)

5

KAT

I stomped to the train station, stewing on what someone had just said to me in class. A guy wearing tight jeans and a fedora hat had leaned his elbows on my work table and asked, “So what’s your story?”

I’d looked around, making sure he was talking to me. “My story?”

He’d made a sweeping circular motion over my body. “This whole situation,” he said. “You look like one of those weedheads in high school who play hacky sack on the lawn.”

Just when I was rearing back to let loose some insults of my own, he’d said, “It’s so retro. Like, add some plaid and you’re totally channeling the early nineties Nirvana look.”

I still couldn’t decide on the meaning behind his words, so I’d just shut my mouth and shrugged like I was too cool to care.

I’d thought about the exchange all the way home and, about two stations before my stop, I finally decided he’d been giving me a backhanded compliment and got off. I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at my reflection in a window. My old Chucks, my baggy jeans that was frayed at the hems, the oversized sweatshirt—they were what I’d always worn, what I’d always felt comfortable in. They spoke of who I was as a person who gave no fucks and felt no need to apologize for it.

Still a voice needled in my head, telling me that I was a walking advertisement for my skills as a designer. If I dressed like a stoner with a decades-old fashion sense would anyone in the fashion world take me seriously?

No, you dumbass.
They’d think you were some delusional homeless person who’d wandered into one of the most prestigious fashion schools in the country.

All around me people were walking by with purpose, their clothes indicative of their current station in life. There were tourists in their comfortable shoes and tee shirts; the professionals in their starched shirts and tailored suits
; the fashionistas with their tall heels and pretty dresses. They all had one thing in common: they all looked appropriate. Maybe it was time I did the same.

Two hours later I headed back home with several shopping bags in hand, my savings account a little battered. My head ached and my stomach rumbled, physical reminders of why I hated shopping.

I heard the sirens three blocks away. By the next block I saw the fire truck come screaming around the corner and heading towards the restaurant. And then I finally saw it, the dark smoke billowing out from a building in the distance.

My feet sped up as the feeling of dread crawled down my throat and lodged itself in my gut. I ran across the street, still refusing to process what I was seeing even though I was standing a few houses down, watching flames swirling out of the yellow brick building’s lower windows.

People stood around in the smoke-filled street, watching as firefighters tried to battle the blaze.

“Katherine, there you are!”

I turned to find Mrs. Chen, the restaurant owner, heading towards me with her husband right behind. I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but nothing came out.

“We were worried you were up there,” she said.

Seeing the black soot on her face and neck finally snapped me out of my trance. “What happened?”

“A fire started in the kitchen and got out of control.”

I couldn’t take my eyes away from the second story window, where smoke came swelling out of the broken windows. “How long?” I asked, trying to control my shaking voice.

Mr. Chen looked at his watch. “They’ve been trying to battle the flames for about an hour and a half.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No. Everyone got out.”

I let out a breath and felt my stomach begin to shake as it all started to really sink in. My garments, my sketchbooks, almost everything I’d brought to New York
was probably going to burn. “My clothes are up there,” I said in a near whisper.

Mrs. Chen’s head whipped around, her black bob swishing, and she fixed me with a hateful glare. “Your clothes? My home and my entire livelihood is gone and you’re worried about your
clothes
?”

The lump in my throat kept me from yelling, from telling her that my clothes—my designs—were
my
livelihood. Without them I was nobody in this city.

Before the tears could fall I turned on a heel and stalked off down the way I came, walking aimlessly for blocks as I tried to take stock of what I was currently in the middle of losing in that apartment.

I don’t know how long I walked, but I finally slumped onto a bench and called the only friend I had. “Luke?”

He immediately picked up on the tone of my voice. “Kat? Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I’m… uh…” I looked around, at a complete loss. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

There was no hesitation in his voice. “Of course. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

“I’ll just come over, okay?”

“Of course.”

I pushed off the bench and took a deep breath. “Thanks.”

Luke was already home from work when I walked up, waiting in front of his building with his hands in his pockets and a frown on his face.

“What happened?” he asked, taking the bags from my hands. “Why do you smell like smoke?”

I straightened my spine and tried to act like the brave woman he knew. “My apartment caught fire,” I said without emotion.

“What? Are you okay?” he asked, peering into my face.

I shook my head. “I’m fine. I wasn’t there when it happened.”

He looked in the bags. “Your clothes… were you able to…” He stopped when he saw the heartbreak on my face. “Come on, Kat. Let’s get you upstairs,” he said, pressing a hand on my back and guiding me into the building.

I kept my cool on the way up, keeping my face impassive during the elevator ride but, once inside the apartment, I set my bag down on the floor and let my shoulders sag with it.

From a faraway place I felt Luke take my hand and lead me towards the couch.

“It’s not time to panic yet,” he said, sitting down and attempting to tug me down next to him. I remained on my feet, still staring into space. “Did you see flames coming from your apartment?”

“No. Just smoke.”

“Then they might have been able to contain the fire before it spread,” he said. “Best case scenario is that your stuff only suffers some smoke damage, but that’s fixable. I know a few really good dry-cleaners who can clean those things for you.”

I nodded and finally sat down, needing to believe him even if deep down I knew it to be a false hope. I felt like such a mess but, more than that, I was weary straight down to the bone. I sank into the couch and closed my eyes, wishing I could fall asleep and wake up to find the entire day had all been a dream.

My stomach chose that moment to grumble that I hadn’t eaten anything since eleven that morning.

Luke got up from the couch. “I brought home some Chinese takeout.”

“I want to just sit here and pretend that everything is going perfectly.”

“You can do that while chewing,” he said, depositing two large paper sacks on the coffee table. He pulled out a white box and a pair of chopsticks and held them out.

The delicious smell wafted up my nose and my hunger won. I reached for the food and opened the box, finding Chow Mein inside. “Do you have a fork?”

He stopped what he was doing, his chopsticks midway to his mouth. He got up and came back a few seconds later with a fork. “I find it hard to believe that you don’t know how to use chopsticks.”

I shrugged and dug into the food, closing my eyes in ecstasy when the flavors burst on my tongue. Somehow nothing else had tasted so good.

We ate in silence for a few minutes but even the food wasn’t enough to make me forget about what had taken place in Bed-Stuy. “It’s like New York is trying to kick me out,” I said softly.

“No she’s not. She can be cold and impersonal at times, but she accepts everybody and anybody who wants to give it a shot.” He held up the chopsticks with a smile. “But to survive in this city, you must learn how to use chopsticks.”

I sighed but accepted his annoying form of diversion anyway.

Later, after we’d eaten and cleaned up, he grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the other apartment. “So you’ll stay in the guest room,” he said, opening the bedroom door to reveal a queen-sized bed complete with dark grey bedding. The room itself was fairly sparse with white walls and only a lamp on a nightstand as furnishing. “And it already comes with curtains,” he added, motioning to the grey metallic window coverings.

He led me to the door on the left. “There are towels and all sorts of shampoos and soaps in there. If you need anything else, let me know.”

“I guess you have a fully-stocked bathroom in case a lady friend or two pays you a visit.”

He gave me a hard stare. “Actually, I went by the store on the way home to make sure you had what you needed.”

God, I felt like such an ungrateful twat.

“You and my mother are the only two women I’ve ever invited into this apartment.” He turned for the door, his spine rigid. “I’ll leave you to get settled.”

“Luke?”

“Yes?”

I took a deep breath. “I’m… um…
thanks.”

He gave a nod and left.

I took a hot shower
to wash away the smell of smoke and guilt and for once I was able to stay in there longer than five minutes as the hot water actually held out. It was glorious and left me soaked in even more guilt.

With a white towel wrapped around my body I crept to the other apartment to get my bags. It looked as though the coast was clear when all of a sudden Luke came out of his bedroom.

I gripped the towel, making sure it stayed put. “I forgot my stuff here.”

He grinned, taking no effort to conceal the way his eyes traveled down my body. “I see that.”

“You remembered what shampoo and conditioner I use,” I said to distract him.

“I did. I remember every detail about my time in Ayashe.”

I tried to ignore the tightness in my chest because I too remembered everything about my time with the man I’d named West, especially the hurt that came after. “I’m going to go get dressed.”

“I have some work to do,” he said, motioning with his head to the desk in the other apartment. “If it bothers you, I can just work on the kitchen counter here.”

“No. I have some reading to do anyway. I was hoping I could use that leather armchair by the bookshelves.”

“You’re more than welcome to it.”

We went our separate ways. I went into the guest bedroom and dressed in a new top and fitted jeans, going sans underwear since I hadn’t thought to purchase any of those.

I came out to find Luke at the desk with his laptop. He looked up and said, “You look nice.”

“Uh, thanks,” I said, tugging on the top, which felt too tight.

“Are you planning on sleeping in that?”

“I don’t really have a choice,” I said, looking down at my outfit.

Without another word he pushed away from the desk and went to the other apartment, coming back a few minutes later with a tee shirt and plaid pajama pants. “Here. These will be a little more comfortable.”

“You really don’t have to—”

“Kat,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument that, of course, it made me want to argue. “Stop please. You gave me shelter, food, clothing. I’m happy to return the favor.”

“I saved your life too,” I said, grudgingly accepting the clothes.

He grinned. “And I’ll gladly save yours. Many times over.”

A few minutes later, now wearing Luke’s clothes, I headed to the leather armchair with my books, painfully aware of his eyes following me. I sat down, finding the chair as comfortable as I remembered, and tried to read a few chapters of a history of fashion tome. From the corner of my eye I could see Luke at the desk typing on the computer, pausing intermittently to write in a notebook.

I tried to focus on my reading, but the man across the room was making it hard to concentrate—especially when he rested his chin on his hand, his finger rubbing along his lower lip while he worked. Here, in the soft recessed lighting of this fancy apartment, I found it hard to summon the anger that I’d held onto for nearly half a year. Here, in his home, wearing his comfortable clothes that smelled like him, I could almost believe I was capable of forgiveness.

“Will you stop that?” He threw down the pen and ran a palm down his face. “I can’t concentrate with you staring at me, especially when you’re wearing my clothes.”

“I wasn’t staring.” I turned my attention back to the book, clearly busted.

The next morning I went across the courtyard to the kitchen and found a key and a note on the counter.

Here’s the key to the door on your side. The coffee is fresh. Mugs are above the sink.

I found the mugs—all of them grey or black—and poured a cup from the thermal carafe. I was taking a sip of the still-scalding coffee when Luke came out of his bedroom, buttoning the lapels of his light blue shirt.