Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Tuesday, December 1st, 2017▪️
▪️Chicago, IL▪️
The door of my room banging against the wall is what wakes me up.
"Bro, you said we'd be leaving at seven." My brother's annoyed rumble reminds me that staying up till one a.m. talking to Angie last night is what causes this morning to come too soon.
"Hmm." I turn away from Louka.
"Mom made breakfast. You better get down, or she'll be mad."
"Uhu." I take the pillow from under my head and cover my face with it.
Louka pulls the blanket off me. "I need this for my credits. You promised."
I kick with my left foot toward the sound of his voice, but he must've dodged it because all I encounter is the cold air of my room.
"I'll pour water on you, you know, right?"
And he will, the little jerk. Louka's woken me up with a glass of water poured over my head many a time. I jump off the bed and put him in a headlock, mess up his hair, shove him into the hallway, and slam my door.
"You're up, then. Breakfast's in ten. Maybe take a shower first." Louka's instructions from behind the door sound awfully like my mother's.
"Fuck off. And tell Mom I'll be there in fifteen."
I'm showered, shaved, dressed, and at the kitchen table in twelve. My stomach squeezes from the smell of strapatsada, scrambled eggs with tomatoes and feta.
"The eggs are amazing," I say, and I'm telling the truth. Mom doesn't have much time to cook, between taking care of the house, us, and working long hours at the salon, but when she does—I make sure she knows I appreciate it.
"My first client isn't until nine," Mom says. "And when I don't make breakfast, all you eat is your protein shakes. Don't know what you'll do when you live by yourself."
"He's never going to live by himself, Mom. I'll move out, and he'll be living with you until one of you dies."
"Louka, don't be gross at the table."
"We'll all die eventually, Mom. There's nothing gross about it."
"This is my table, young man, and if I say it's gross, then it is."
I put another serving on my plate, before Louka gets to it. "If you're coming with, we need to leave in five. Grab the extra helmet from the closet."
The first day of December proves that winters in Chicago suck. As we ride through the not quite rain and not quite snow, I hope Louka gets what he needs today for his photography class. We arrive to my office an hour before most of my colleagues show up, even though my boss gave me the okay to have Louka here. We navigate to my seat through rows of shared desks, glass dividers, dual monitors, and the brightly colored sound dampening hangings I always doubt actually work.
