Page 36 of My Lucky Charm

He makes a noise like he knows he should respond but doesn’t want to put in the effort to come up with actual words.

This conversation is like a seesaw with one person.

“Do you not like people around when you practice?” I angle my body slightly toward him.

He shrugs.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, it’s just . . . weird. Invasive. Especially with people I know.”

“What about when you play?” I ask. “There are thousands of people watching you then.”

“It’s different,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know any of them.” The car comes to a stop at a red light, and I shift in my seat.

“Do you have anyone? I mean, who’ll be at the games?” I’m fishing, and I know it.

The light changes, and the car starts to move again.

“Look, Eloise, I’m sure you’re a great person, but maybe let’s keep the personal details personal, okay?”

I glance up to see Gerard watching me again, then back to the road.

I stare out the window. “Got it.”

My plan to give him the silent treatment lasts about three seconds because we’re driving over the Chicago River, and it makes me think about one of Chicago’s coolest and strangest traditions. “Okay, I know you’re not wild about Chicago, but there are a lot of really cool things that happen here all year round.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Did you know they dye this entire river green for St. Patrick’s Day? Originally, a group of plumbers used the dye to identify leaking pipes. It turned the entire river green for a week, and the tradition was born. Now they use an orange vegetable dye, which is better for the environment, but they do it every year. It coincides with a St. Patrick’s Day parade, which is an even older tradition here in the city.” I know this because when I was a tour guide, I had to learn a lot of historical facts about the city, and St. Patrick’s Day is a big deal in Chicago. I remember the spiel as if I’d recited it yesterday.

I glance over. He’s looking at me, but he makes no attempt to engage.

Some people would be deterred by this, but not me. I take it as a cue to tell him everything I love about the city.

Because when it comes to taking hints, I absolutely suck.

“We’ve got great restaurants, the best pizza, forget New York, I don’t care if you can fold it. We’ve got incredible museums, and personally, I think the theatre scene here rivals Broadway.” I pause and reassess who I’m talking to. “Not that someone like you is probably that into theatre, you know . . . but . . .”

Open mouth, say stuff, apparently.

And I just keep going.

“But you haven’t lived until you’ve seen Chicago at Christmas time. The windows are my favorite. The lights, the decorations . . . and the markets. I mean, it’s freezing, but it’s worth it.”

I look at him. “I don’t know if you’re one of those people who can celebrate Christmas without snow, but I’m not. Christmas and winter are meant to be white. And the weather here . . . I mean . . . it gets really cold in the winters. Can you stand it? The cold?”

“I lived in Philadelphia,” he deadpans.

“Right.” I mentally smack my forehead. “This weather probably isn’t a big deal to you.”

I glance at him and he looks . . . amused? Entertained? Weird. He’s not annoyed.

I’m not sure why I’m still talking. He hardly seems to be listening. He’s probably regretting getting into this car with me, but the alternative to my babbling—silence—is even less appealing.

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