Page 4 of Unhurried Hearts

I level him with a glare. “Says who?”

“Ah, don’t be like that.” He settles himself against my door frame, effectively blocking my access to the lock. I stare at the place behind his lower back where I know my door handle waits.

If this guy can’t take a hint, I’ll have to spell it out for him.

“Sorry, remind me of your name again?”

I’m not sorry. And I also haven’t forgotten his name. But the incensed look on his face makes it worth the extra seconds of interaction.

“It’s Tanner.”

“Right, of course.Tanner, I don’t do hook-ups with neighbours. Or anyone, actually. So,” I flutter my hand to indicate he should move his scrawny body out of the way.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes as he moves aside. “Prude.”

The hall is quiet enough that I hear the insult loud and clear. His choice of words is a punch to the gut. Only one other person has called me that.

“Knock on my door later if you’re bored—”

Oh my god.

With record speed I unlock it and squeeze inside, only opening my door as wide as my hips.

Swinging closed with a bang, the door cuts him off for me.

“I will not beboredlater, thank you very much,” I mutter.

It’s later. I’m bored. I can’t choose a show to save my life, my condo is finally clean, none of my friends are free, and even Ashlyn has left me on read. She’s preoccupied these days. If she isn’t busting her butt with Cedar and Stem or taking the odd nursing shift, she’s doing whatever people who are deeply in love with their live-in boyfriends do. Staring into each other’s eyes? Laughing until their sides hurt? Having steamy sex? I wouldn’t know. My v-card is very much my own. It’s not only tucked into my wallet, it’s in the depths of my purse where breath mints and receipts go to die. I had absolutely zero intention of still being a virgin mere months away from my thirtieth birthday, but here we are. I don’t know what, or who, I’m waiting for, but it isn’t the barely twenty-one-year-old Tanner and his surround sound set up down the hall. Every time I recall his dumb voice calling me a prude my heart rate ticks up and I’m mad all over again. A guy I dated a year or so ago used the same insult when I asked himto slow down.

While I’m not a religious person, the man who married my mom when I was still in middle schoolwas. Not long after their wedding, everything changed. My mom sold our house and we moved into his place with his twin sons who refused to share a bedroom with each other. That left me in the partially finished basement. It’s hard to breathe when I remember the windowless excuse for a room with the cold linoleum flooring and house spiders the size of my fist. My eyes scan the nightlights I keep plugged into every other outlet for reassurance.

“Don’t rock the boat, Anna. We just moved in here. We’ll sort something out.” Mom had said. We never did sort it out. That room was all mine until I moved out and everything that happened in that house had to be Thad approved. Family church and youth groups were mandatory. It took a long time to get that patriarchal purity culture bullshit out of my head. Metaphors that compare a woman’s body to a lock that should only be opened by one ‘key.’ The constant reminder that your future husband is out there and he’s counting on you to be pure for him. It wasn’t lost on me that his boys were never the recipients of a similar message. Over time, with the help of therapy, I’ve unravelled the binds of those toxic lines of thought. I’m no longer ashamed of the desires that make me human. My therapist helped me realize that it’s okay for sex to still bean important milestone in my life. Sometimes it feels like the more ready I become to let go, the harder it is to find someone to be with that will be willing to take their time. Is that so much to ask for?

It’s seeming less and less likely that that person exists.

Chapter two

Chris

My worn leather recliner creaks as I pop out the footrest and settle in to eat my breakfast. Yogi sniffs the air curiously from her cat tree next to the television.

“I don’t think oatmeal is really your jam,” I tell her.

My weekends look a whole lot different since Mexico. Now I wake up in my own bed,alone. I don’t have awkward morning conversations or go to brunch. Most importantly, there are no more regrets about my behaviours the night before. It’s not like I think I’m a whole new man or anything, but I’m impressed with my willpower and self-improvement. The last few months have allowed meto dial in on work and get in the best shape of my life. A little boredom on the weekends and a lot of horniness are a small price to pay.

Yogi’s ears twitch, swivelling toward the ceiling at the sound of my friend and landlord, Berg’s, footsteps, and his little girls’ high-pitched voices. He’s a single dad. A widower, technically. But hehatesthat term. I don’t know much about raising kids, but those two sound barrier breakers seem to be doing great under the guidance of their dear old dad. Financially speaking, I don'thaveto live in my buddy's basement suite anymore, but I figure living down here is helpful to Berg, and moving is a hassle I’m not up for. Besides, this way I can send money to my sister. I rinse my oatmeal bowl and pop it in the dishwasher before grabbing a black ball cap and my earbuds. When I walk out the door for an easy jog, Berg is standing at the bottom of his curved flagstone stairs with the newspaper in hand.

He’s still in pyjama pants and a sweatshirt. “Mornin’,” he says.

“Rough night?” I note the bags beneath his eyes. “Thought I heard a car leave late.”

Berg's daughters are five and eight and it’s not often you hear a vehicle leave the house after bedtime.

“Natalie has a cough that wouldn’t quit. Hung out in emergency for a few hours.”

Okay. Bergisa great dad. But he’s shitty at asking for help. I amble slowly down the drive, and he follows along, scanning the front-page stories.

“You didn’t have to take both of them. Next time pound on my door and I’ll sleep on your couch.”

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