Natalia

My thighs burn, my slippery dress slides out of my sweaty hands, threatening to topple me over, and my chest collapses with every dig of the under-wire of my fancy push-up bra, impeding my struggling lungs from getting enough air. Ten years ago, I knew what I was doing, but today I climb the stairs to the rooftop of my old International House dorm building as my plans land with a giant splat in the pit of my stomach.

Where do I go from here? Not down and back to the apartment Samson and I share that's full of the reminders of lost years. Up. I pretend I actually joined the cycling club my BFF Kate begged me to enroll in with her, squeeze my buns, and take the next step. My failures have always led me to new heights, and I'm not changing my attitude toward making mistakes today. Even giant long-term mistakes like Samson.

The metal door that leads to the roof has been repainted into a fire-engine red from the dull gray of my university years. I stumble on the last flight of stairs but push on. I always push on. I've been the most resilient member of my family through seven moves from country to country; the hardest working student in every class I took; the research assistant who put the most hours into my work; the girlfriend who did everything for her boyfriend.

After ten years invested in Samson, I'm back to square. . . not one, but I'm no longer in the home stretch of my plan.

I let go of the railing and take the final step to the door. Sometimes the first step is the hardest, but today, it's the last one.

As if I can hear Samson running after me with apologies or promises, I dither on the landing and look down the stairwell. But Samson doesn't do things like that. Samson doesn't run after what he wants. It gets delivered to him on a silver platter. I know because I became his delivery system. No more. I ram my arm into the door and remember why I'm here: to be alone. To think. To come up with a new plan, starting with where I'll be staying until I get a place of my own.

Early August in Chicago still offers more heat during the day than April in Nicaragua, but I spend close to a hundred percent of my day between the air-conditioned rooms of the apartment and the even more air-conditioned offices and labs of NanoTech. The cooling night air ripples through the skirt of my dress, and blows my long straight hair into my face, covering my eyes with a black net that disorients me.

I let go of my dress, raise my hand to wipe the strands away, and a gust slaps the thin material against my thighs. My feet in the five-inch heels catch on something I can't identify because of the shield of hair over my face and the yards of my skirt billowing around me.

Should I lean sideways? I'm so close to the final stage of my animal trials, I can't have any delays right now. If I damage my legs, I won't run for a while, but I'll still be able to continue my experiments. If I fall forward and injure my hands, it'll delay everything by several days. At least. I flap my arms as if I can oscillate them fast enough to maintain my equilibrium when my knees buckle.

The contact with the floor never happens, as arms close around me, and I lie in them suspended between the dark sky and the hot roof, my dress continuing its angry thrashing.

"Good thing I was here," a male voice says inches from my ear.

I succeed in brushing my hair out of my eyes. By now my expensive blowout Kate insisted on treating me to must look like a Guns-n-Roses hairdos from the eighties. Minus the perm. I carry their image engraved in my brain.

Instead of a quinceañera local girls got, my gift for my fifteenth birthday was a signed Guns-n-Roses vinyl Mom bought at the concert on December 7th 1988 at Nakano Sun Plaza Hall, the when and where of my conception. My eyes adjust to the almost darkness of the roof enough for me to not only see but recognize the face hovering above mine.

My heart that's been struggling to keep up with my anger and my climb up too many steps beats even faster. His eyes are on my legs that might as well be 100% naked, with my red silk skirt serving as a sail behind me more than a garment that's supposed to cover me up. I haven't seen him in the hall below today, or I would've come up and said hi.

He hasn't changed that much from the college days we've spent together. The light stubble on his cheeks ensures he looks thirty-seven and not twenty-two as on the last day I saw him in person. An undercurrent of old want starts under my knees where his thumb is pressing into my skin.

There's some gray in his dark blond hair. He's still on the tall and lanky side, even though his shoulders appear broader. Maybe it's the tux? But I would've recognized him even if the last time I saw his face was indeed our BIOS graduation ceremony. My throat tightens, and blood rushes into my temples.

Phillip Van der Heuvel.

When we first met our sophomore year in Ms. T's chemistry 201 class, the only thing I could think of when I said his name was Grinch and Whoville, no matter how many times he told me how to pronounce his last name correctly. I even gave him a T-shirt with the characters when he got the B he needed in the biology 402 class I was tutoring him for.

My breaths grow quicker, even though I'm not climbing the stairs anymore. Phillip's other hand that's between my armpit and the top of my breast is so cold I can feel the outline of his fingers.

"Phillip?" His name comes out as a question even though I'm one hundred thousand percent sure it is him.

"Do we know each other or am I just that famous?" Phillip chuckles, but not in a way that is self-deprecating. Phillip sounds like 'of course I'm super famous and don't expect for me to know who you are because us, famous and rich people, don't have to remember all the riff-raff we meet.'

Maybe that's not at all what runs through his head, but I've always imagined what other people actually mean when they say things. I hate how 90% of the time the words we hear and what the person wants to say have very little in common. What I'm not saying to him right now is how dare he forget me. I stay silent and roll my eyes.

The eeky feeling of resentment that he didn't instantly know who I was roils in my stomach. My parents would have trouble recognizing me in my bold outfit. And I might currently be a cross between the girl from "The Ring" and a frigate with red tanbark sails. But I haven't aged that much.

"Set me down, Whoville." I sound like a grump as I struggle to get out of his hold.

"Nata?" He looks so surprised, one might think I've been resurrected from the dead.

It's not even Halloween.

He lowers me onto my feet, only to move the hair out of my face. The tips of his fingers smell of tobacco and menthol and are icy against my skin. I'm grateful to the badly lit rooftop because judging by the way my cheeks are burning, I'm also the color of said tanbark sails. I hope he doesn't notice my overheated state.

"It's Natalia now."

He and the people downstairs might be the only ones who remember my Nata days. I've switched to my full name when I graduated UChicago and started my PhD. Natalia M. Boyko looked more official and grown-up on my research papers.

"I didn't see you behind all that hair." Phillip puts both palms on my cheeks and tilts my face to the caged bulb of the security lamp by the door-the only source of light around us. He peers into me and his forehead wrinkles. "It is you."

I scrunch my nose and stick my tongue at him.

His eyes shine with something akin to glee and amusement as brightly as they can in our current circumstances. I might as well be a cute puppy or kitten in his hands, and not a grown woman. "Where's your tooth gap?"

He loosens his grip on my cheeks, but doesn't quite let go, inspecting every inch of my face without blinking, as if I might be faking it and would transform into somebody else if he stares hard enough. "And the bowl haircut you used to have? Did you also have a growth spurt?"

"You can let go of me." I try for my 'professional researcher' voice. I succeed at sounding like an is reading my words.

"Definitely Nata." Fine lines radiate around his eyes as he smiles. "You still sound like you're about to send me into detention." He releases my head that's now full of the beats of my pulse.

Author's Note

9.16.22

This part took me entirely too long to write. But it's done. The meet-cute has begun and will continue in the next chapter.

Can you feel all the history between these two?

And their plans? THEIR PLANS!!!

I'm chuckling like an evil demon over the plans I have for the plans of these two. Feeling like the master of the Universe today, that's for sure.

If you are getting excited about the story and want to know what's next, hit that star button to cheer me on, as I retreat into my writing den to get the next chapter of Love Expectations ready.

New to the Love in Chicago Universe? Check out my other books in this series. All stories are standalones, but my recommended reading order is: Love Novice, Love Strings, Love Graduate, Love Words (ongoing), and Love Expectations.

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Love,

GR