“Second drawer, below the microwave.”She gestures in the general direction of her small kitchen.“We can get Chinese or Italian.”
“Why don’t you decide?”It's not like I am going to be eating anything.
Chapter Seven
Harlow
The Man In The Park
Mateo:Good morning, beautiful.Please don’t be mad.I’m sending a gift your way.It’s to help you take care of your ankle.And it’s a gift, so no repayment necessary.Have a good day at work.
Beneath Mateo’s unexpected morning text is a screenshot of what appears to be a confirmation for services ordered.The logo on the screenshot matches the logo on a shiny, polished silver sedan that has pulled to a stop outside my apartment building.
Not only did Mateo arrange transportation for me—without talking to me first—but he had to have spent some money in the effort, because the car downstairs is no Uber.That is a privately owned transportation company, if ever I’ve seen one.
I look again at his message, even though I’ve memorized it at this point.
Ishouldbe mad.At the very least, I ought to be frightened.
Him carrying me back to my apartment and tending my ankle the night before, when we were supposed to be going to dinner, had been startling but maybe also the most gentlemanly and tender experience I’ve ever had.I nearly cried.I probably would have, if I had not also spent most of the rest of the evening struggling against the desire to throw myself at him.
But this?This feels like more.This feels like one of those warning signs women are warned to watch out for.Except...
Except it makes my heart flutter, just the same way my heart fluttered when he inspected my ankle.The same way it fluttered when Mateo insisted I not walk him to the door when he took his leave, well after dinner, and bade his goodnight with a lingering kiss to my forehead.
I release a breath, grab my purse, and make my way to the door.My ankle is wrapped with an ace bandage, and I took some more pain medicine with my breakfast, so walking is somewhat easier than the last time I stepped out of the apartment.And for as possibly concerning, certainly frustrating as the transport downstairs is ...I decide I am also grateful.I don’t know how I would have made it to work if I’d stubbornly persisted on foot.
Once the car is in motion, I pull out my phone and type a quick text back.I’ve learned that Mateo is often too busy during the day to respond promptly, so I know not to wait for one now.That’s fine.I still feel like I should thank him.
****
Mateo sends me a carfor two more days, morning and night.The guilt of whatever these cars must be costing—which he’s refused to disclose—is eating away at me.So I’m sure to tell him when my ankle starts feeling better.
And during all of this, we keep texting.We text until late, until I’ve tucked myself into bed.His words have become the last I read for the day.
Falling asleep to thoughts of Mateo and hearing his voice in my mind is the best kind of torture.