Page 39 of My Brother's Roommate (Frisky Business 2)
Now I’m riding shotgun in his car, admiring Wolfie’s seasoned city driving as he expertly weaves us through the traffic that Friday nights in Chicago are so famous for. Rush hour in the city always turns me into a white-knuckled stress bomb, but my chauffeur for the evening is seemingly unaffected by the chaos. It’s a nice change of pace.
“This is insane,” I mutter, motioning toward the shit show that we’re bearing witness to.
When a nearby driver lays on his horn, I jump at least three inches out of my seat. Meanwhile, Wolfie seems totally unfazed.
“Tell me your secrets,” I say. “How did you become such an expert in city driving?”
“Practice,” he says matter-of-factly. “I grew up here. But the roads won’t be so bad where we’re going.”
I pause, wary of pressing my luck with questions, but ultimately ask in a small voice, “And, um, where is that exactly?”
Wolfie takes his eyes off the road for a second, just long enough to offer me the slightest hint of a smile. “You’ll see.”
As we head west, away from the lake and past the more developed parts of the city, both the drinking crowds and the traffic dissipate. Whatever it is that he wants me to see, it sure is awfully far from either of our homes.
A full thirty minutes pass and we’re still driving, making our way farther and farther away from any part of the city that’s familiar to me. Soon, the streets we’re traveling are lined with more old-school corner stores than trendy cocktail bars, and the sidewalks are roadside are a bit more cluttered with litter, shattered liquor bottles and plastic bags.
I’ve ridden the bus through this part of the city before, but I’ve never gotten off here. Never had a reason to. It’s the kind of place you pass through without stopping, the city equivalent to a flyover state. It’s not dangerous, per se, but it’s not the kind of place where a girl should be wandering around alone.
Luckily, I’m not alone. I’m with Wolfie, who looks apathetic as usual as he turns away from the string of abandoned storefronts and down a more residential road.
“Did we make a wrong turn somewhere?” My teeth sink into my lower lip as I size up the run-down apartment buildings lining the block, each of them shedding shingles and siding like old skin.
Wolfie shakes his head, steering us straight ahead. “Nope. Almost there.”
I shift in my seat, trying not to seem unsettled by our surroundings. Both the neighborhood and the anticipation have me feeling fidgety. I’m the type who likes to have a plan, the type who needs to know what to expect.
Two blocks later, he parks on the street between an old truck and a minivan that’s held together with the power of duct tape. I blink at Wolfie, waiting for the admission that he took a wrong turn after all and didn’t want to fess up. Instead, he frees himself from his seat belt and hops out of the car.
All-righty then. I guess we’re doing this.
Whatever this is.
Deep breaths, Pen. You can be spontaneous.
I join him on the sidewalk. To my surprise, his fingers lace through mine, sending a warm rush of adrenaline prickling through my veins.
The last time we were together, things got pretty heated. I can’t help but reflect on Wolfie’s behavior that night and the things he said. Maybe he was so free because he knew nothing could actually happen between us—not with my brother right next door. It’s an interesting theory, anyway.
But right now, I don’t have time to analyze it because our palms are pressed together tight enough for me to feel his heartbeat, and all the uncertainty between us washes away. For now, it’s just him and me, hand in hand, and I would follow him anywhere.
We fall into step, strolling down the sidewalk for half a block until Wolfie halts in front of an old brick four-story building.
“This is it.”
He stares up at the building, his eyes full of every emotion. Pride. Sadness. Love. Anger. His reaction is far more interesting than the building itself, with its boarded-up windows and unremarkable brick exterior.
I try to take it in, to see whatever he’s seeing, but I come up blank. It’s just an old run-down apartment building that looks like it’s set to be demolished.
“What is this place?” I ask.
Wolfie swallows, his eyes still locked ahead. “Something I wanted to show you.”
It strikes me that this is Wolfie letting me in. I’m barely breathing, recognizing this is a big moment between us. “What is it?”
“This is where I grew up.”
Suddenly, it feels like somebody planted a firecracker in my stomach. I knew Wolfie was a born-and-raised Chicagoan, but I’ve always figured he was from the suburbs or somewhere else on the outskirts of town. But this isn’t suburbia. This is an urban hellscape. How has he never brought this up?
