Page 27 of Shifted

"How do I know you're not a serial killer?"

"How do I know that you're not a serial killer?" He raised a quizzical brow at me with a smile. "You were the one who mentioned the knife-throwing lessons, were you not?" I sucked in my lips at his comment.

"It's a kill-or-be-killed world out here, Reed!" He shook his head at me and started driving to his place.

?

We made it to the top of a six-floor walk-up, which felt like a workout in itself. It made me question if cardio and strength were enough. "Wow, you must get some good exercise every day," I mutter.

"The elevators are down," he says, and I look over to the silver box, thinking back to that night. Though the buildings were different, they reminded me of my almost impending doom.

"Lame." We walked to his apartment, and he unlocked the door. For a person who's supposed to be broke, his living situation in the city doesn't seem to be horrific, nor does his car. "For a broke resident, you have a nice view of Copley Square?"

"My grandfather died a few years back, and each of his grandchildren got a sum of money. I spent it on medical school and my living situation. I make money during my residency as well, so I have an income." I scoffed, so his being broke was all just some act; he didn’t know what being broke truly was.

"Coming from a once homeless seventeen-year-old, this is not broke, not close to it at all. This place is nicer than my childhood home, minus that walk-up." He chuckled and opened the door to his studio. "It's a very charming studio."

He walked over to the kitchen, screwed open a bottle of wine, and started up the stove, "Do you like pasta, Hope?" Who didn’t like pasta? It was one of my main food groups. I consumed it like no other food. It probably wasn’t for the best, but it made me happy.

"I love pasta. What do you plan to make?" He puts a pinch of salt in the boiling pot of water and reaches for a saucepan. How does penne alla vodka sound?” My mouth watered at the thought of it. This man already knew the way to my heart foodwise.

"That sounds amazing right about now." My stomach rumbles loudly again, causing him to laugh. "How about garlic bread?" he asks as I adjust myself on top of his counter. "Oh, it just gets better! Who knew you could cook?" He pulls out French bread and a clove of garlic.

"When I get stressed, and on my days off... I like to cook myself a nice meal. My mom always wanted me to go to culinary school as a kid, and she loved my food."

"Loved?" I didn't like to pry, but I'd rather know now than later if he'd lost a parent and avoid awkwardly saying something insensitive later. "Loves, she loves it. My parents are still very much alive and well, and they are just in Oregon, along with my sister Margaret. My older brother Griffin lives in Vermont with his wife, Ellis. They own a vineyard, and I'm giving you a family round-up. I apologize." I shushed him. I liked learning more about him. It made him less likely to be a serial killer truly.

"I think it's cute. Are you close with them? I know you guys are all distant from each other." He shook his head in agreement. Yes, I am. For Christmas, they all come here. We always did when I was growing up, so it drew me here for school. I go back once in a while to visit home." It was nice to know his family relations were not damaged. I am not saying that if they were, it would bother me.

"Are your parents still together?"

"They've been married for 36 years and still drive each other insane. But they have so much love for each other you know? My mother teases me because she had me at 30, and I'm still here trying to make a career.” He handed me a glass of red, and I sipped it curiously.

"Your parents aren't proud that you're a doctor? I feel like that's most parents' dream." He nodded, seeming a bit conflicted on the subject. I couldn’t imagine his parents not being supportive of his career and accomplishments. But yet again, my parents couldn’t care less, even if they did know about mine.

"Well, yes, about being a doctor, but not in Boston. They wanted me closer to home, but Mass General is one of if not the best hospital in the world. I went to Tufts undergrad and then to their med school, top of my class." There was the hint of arrogance again as he spoke, but it was good to know he was proud of himself.

"Wow, impressive." He laughed at my compliments.

"I think I may be more impressed by you. I mean, law school, with a baby, and now working towards being a junior associate at just 25 years old?" I sipped my wine again with a fruitful smile.

"I don't need you to be impressed by me. That's not my goal. My goal is to be a junior associate now and partner at 33, and I have a way to go to accomplish that." I stood to evaluate his apartment. It was a studio with one bedroom. "This is a massive studio apartment, you know that, right?" I turned back to him.

"It's nothing compared to your place; how do you even afford that? I mean, not in a rude or judgmental way, but at 25 with no money from anyone else." A lump in my throat formed because whatever excuse I gave wouldn’t cover a multi-million-dollar apartment purchase. I knew the math never added up, but I never wanted others to notice.

"I get really nice bonuses, and my sister Taryn sends me money here and there. She doesn't know how I'm doing or what I do. I haven't seen her since I was 17." That wasn’t true, and I hadn't seen a check from her since I was 17, only one that was hers. I don't even think she knows I have a child, and neither do my parents, and that's for the best.

"Your apartment looks about eight to ten million, and she sends you the upkeep for that place? Is your sister Cruella de Vil?" I turned back to him with a light smile. "You like to ask a lot of questions, don't you?" He stirred the pot and shrugged. "Just curious." Maybe he was the IRS in hiding, waiting to catch me on money crimes I hadn’t committed.

"I have no family besides the Jones family. Seriously, Maria wanted to adopt me once and still wants me to call her mom. But I already had a mom who failed; I don't need another." I'm not saying Maria would ever fail, but I didn’t feel comfortable. I grew up without having a real mom, and I didn’t think anyone deserved that title due to its bad rep.

He served the pasta on two plates at his dinner table, which had a window that looked over Copley. "Everyone looks so small from here.” I took a bite of the pasta and was surprised: "Wow, that's delicious. Not bad, Austen."

"Oh, so now we are on a last-name basis, Taylor?"

"We both have first names as last names, and you’ve been using mine?" I mused and looked at the time, "Shit, it's getting late, and I have to drop Joely off at daycare early tomorrow." I looked back at him, “When's your next day off?"

"Urgent to see me again so soon, huh?" He clicks his tongue in excitement as I feel a slight blush against my skin. I honestly did, and that was a rare experience.

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