Page 8 of The Shadows We Keep

The sweet aroma of marinara wafts through the vents. My apartment constantly smells like I’m oven baking freshly made pizza. I love it. If I wasn’t on my feet eight hours a day lifting thirty-two and a half pound suitcases, over and over, all day long, I’d actually have to think about working out. But because I am, I take full advantage of my allotted daily pizza slices offered in the rental agreement.

I have to be at work in just over an hour. The night shift starting at nine p.m. is perfect for me. Heading down the dimly lit hallway, I avoid the discolored linoleum and keep my head down. The locked door swings open and a wave of heat from the oven hits me.

“Hey Sal.” I nod to the chef as he wields pizza dough like a flying shield up in the air, rotation after rotation.

“Hey Darlin’, you eating tonight?” His endearment doesn’t bother me. We’ve built a close bond over the last year. He feeds and watches over me like a hawk, while keeping a tab on the shop.

“You know it. Couldn’t miss my Monday usual. Can you throw it in the oven for me?”

“On it.” He winks and begins topping the dough.

Stepping around the counter, Marco—said skeezy son—sits at the counter, eyes downcast at his phone. I keep my distance, waiting for Sal to bring my pizza out.

I slink into my regular booth in the corner, back to the wall. My unobstructed view is the same as my apartment upstairs. While at this level, I can’t see into Harkin’s place. I can see the front door and who comes and goes. The street is busy, but the entrance to his building remains vacant.

“Pepperoni, pineapple, and pepperoncini.” The paper plate with two steaming slices sides in front of me. “You know that’s not real pizza, right?” Sal eyes my favorite combination. “When ya gonna let me make you a slice of real Italian pizza?” he pleads.

“Sal, this is perfect. Sweet, salty, a little kick. The perfect trifecta.”

He mutters something in Italian under his breath, motioning the sign of the cross in front of his chest. Shaking his head, he makes his way back to the kitchen.

Turning the volume up on my headphones, I jump back into the video I was watching, while enjoying my non-Italian pizza. I check my watch, chewing up the last delicious bite.

Shit I’m going to be late for work if I don’t head out soon.

The bell chimes again, distracting my worry when my gaze moves to a tall figure stepping out on to the sidewalk. I’d know that frame anywhere. Dark blue denim paired with a leather jacket strides across the street, a giant pizza box tucked to his side.

He’s back.

Fucking finally.

I felt off kilter with him, gone; not having the reassurance of his lights on at night. The guy never closes his shades all the way. A patterned glow of rainbow colors reflects off his windows. Creating a light show, nightly. Specifically for one or so I like to tell myself anyway. Work is going to drag now that I have a reason to come home.

In my own little world, celebrating my man’s return to the city, I’m rudely interrupted by Marco, tapping my shoulder. “Hey Keira, why do you insist on eating over here by yourself when I’m all alone at the counter? Don’t you want to keep me company?” His pitiful, fake puppy dog eyes do nothing to guilt me into wanting to spend any more time with him than I already have to.

“You know I have to talk to people all night long at work, Marco. I just try to enjoy the brief silence I get when I can.” I smile up at him, hoping he doesn’t prod any further.

He smiles at me, reaching for a loose hair dangling in my face before pushing it behind my ear. I try to keep my body still as a shiver wracks through me.

Total fucking creep.

“Do you know that guy that just came in here?” His scowl pulls his dark, bushy eyebrows down toward his nose.

“Uh, I have no clue who you’re talking about.” I shrug, hiding my interest.

“Well, he seems to know you. He was a little weird if you ask me. Might want to keep an eye out when you’re coming home in the morning. Anyway, he left this for you.” Marco slides a white note card across the table and picks up my trash. I smile my thanks and snag the paper from the table, hiding it quickly in my purse.

It’s eating at me to rip it open and read his words, but I can’t do it now. Not with Marco staring me down from the front counter. I give him an unenthusiastic wave and head out the door for the subway. My eyes scan across the street, up to the third floor, where his windows leave little to the imagination.

Then I see it. It’s quick, just a blur really, but I know in my gut it was him. He’s watching me.

Well, this is new.

The streets are sparse of people at this hour. The odd couple heading out to dinner or businessmen coming home late from the office. My commute to work is preferable to my morning commute home when the only people out and about are true morning people.

Yuck.

The doors slide close on the subway. My music stops at the end of theDark Daysplaylist I found on Spotify. I hit shuffle on my liked songs, needing the comfort of familiarity before I dive in. When Hozier’s soulful lilt fills my ears, my anxiety wanes as I pluck the white note card from my bag. My toes tap rhythmically in my Docs as my fingers trace around the edges of the paper.

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