TMI (2014 Collector's Dream Winner)

TMI - Chapter 47

At the door to an old building sandwiched between a camera store and wow — another camera store, Meg rang the buzzer for the second time and turned to head back to the subway.

Chase wasn't home.

It was nearly dark. She couldn't hang around too much longer. She'd let Bailey dress her up and drive her to the train station, and traveled all the way to the city for nothing. She wiped a bead of sweat from the back of her neck and started walking, oblivious to the messenger bike that — with a squeal of hand brakes — narrowly missed plowing into a parked car.

"Megan? Megan, is that you?" A familiar voice shouted.

She spun, found Chase in the street, bright yellow helmet on his head, standing beside a bike. His jaw dropped. So did the bike.

He left the bike where it fell and ran, pure joy in his mystical eyes. "Megan!"

She took a few steps toward him, stopping to clutch an iron rail in front of the building. She smiled his smile and never bothered to hide it and it almost hurt, it felt so good. When he reached her, he scooped her up in his arms, and just held her, held tight. "Megan. What the hell are you doing here? Why are you wearing a dress?"

She pulled back — not away — just far enough to look up at him and try to understand the temper that heated his words. "Um."

"You here for me?" He pulled back, dropped his hands.

"I'm here for me. I think."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Chase, I'm so sorry. For— for not trusting you and not talking to you and for — for all of it."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "We should talk," he said after a long moment. The smile faded from her lips but she nodded.

"Come on." He retrieved his bike, led her through his door, and walked to the elevator. They rode in silence to the eighth floor, tension so thick it practically had its own heart beat. He did not look at her. Finally, the doors slid open. He pushed the bike to the third door on the right, opened it, and stood aside to let her go first.

She stepped into a narrow hall that led from the front door to the living room, where the smell of old pizza lingered. He propped the bike on a rack and removed the helmet. She moved to the window, stared down. "Nice view."

He flopped onto a second-hand sofa covered in threadbare brown fabric pushed up against the short wall. "The one from my room back home was better. I used to watch you, you know. All the time." He suddenly blurted.

She spun, the blue skirt swishing around her legs. "Really?"

He ran his hands through sweaty hair and then wiped his palms down his bike shorts. "It's— um— how I knew you hurt your hand."

She flexed it and a long purple scar winked at him.

"I love to watch you paint. It's like… like someone kicked you into high gear. You're awake, you're moving, but damn, when you paint, you're—" He spread his hands, unable to find the word.

"Alive." She finally supplied and then laughed.

"What?"

She waved a hand. "It's nothing, just thinking how Bailey would go all gooey at that. She'd have said, 'Oh my God he's just like Edward!' and I would have rolled my eyes or something."

He scrubbed a hand over his face that had suddenly gone red but didn't say anything so Meg lost her grin. "You must have thought I was crazy, painting you all the time."