She follows me, sits on a chair, and sets her luggage on each side of her seat. I guess I’m not allowed to sit next to her.
I take a seat across from her and pull out a couple of granola bars from my backpack and offer them to her. “Have you eaten?”
“Thank you,” she takes both, places one inside her backpack, and opens the other one. “What is it like to have three sisters?”
“That’s a strange question. Nyx and Persy are my best friends,” I inform her. “We traveled with our parents to archeological sites. We were our only constant. Sometimes I played dolls with them. Other days, we would be climbing trees, throwing the ball, or we hung out with my parents.”
“So that’s why you traveled a lot? Your parents are archeologists?”
I nod and tell her more about our trips. The ones I remember the most, the food we ate, the languages we know, and the people we’ve met. She stops me to ask questions and hangs onto every word I tell her. As I relive the memories, it feels as if she’s holding my hand and experiencing them with me.
“How about you? Any siblings?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m an only child. My parents divorced when I was young.”
“That sucks. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. They divorced years ago. If you think about it, divorce children are more typical than children from lengthy and happy marriages.” She smiles. “I’m the norm. You’re an almost extinct species.”
“You like to tweak things around, don’t you?”
She takes a bite of her granola bar and then looks at me. “It’s a coping mechanism. Divorced parents, remember?”
“So, you’re Canadian, but your Dad currently lives in San Francisco because…”
She narrows her eyes. “There you go again, trying to fetch information.”
“I just told you my entire life, and you can’t even answer a question?”
She taps her lip. “There wasn’t a question. You’re just implying.” Her playful eyes stare at me. “I was born in San Francisco. Dad’s from there too. Mom is Canadian. After the divorce, she moved back to Toronto.” She yawns. “You don’t want to know about them. It’s boring, lengthy, and annoying.”
My phone rings and I notice it’s after ten. No wonder I’m hungry and tired.
“Hey,” I greet Persy. “You guys made it to our parents’?”
“Yes. We just arrived. How’s Olivia?”
I look at Olivia, who is yawning again and rubbing her eyes. “Tired.”
“Offer her to go to your apartment now. She might be ready to trust you.”
“I hope so because I’m falling asleep also.” I yawn too.
“Your sisters?”
I nod in response.
“So, I don’t have much in my fridge, but there’s plenty of food for us to survive the storm,” I offer.
She smiles. “I…”
“It’s hard to trust someone you just met,” I state and grab her hand, encasing it with both of my hands. “I’m taking the risk bringing you to my place. For all I know, you are a thief that takes advantage of gullible idiots who try to do the right thing.”
She blinks a couple of times and releases a loud laugh. I’m getting used to her voice, her laugh, and that hunger to learn more and more. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s one of those people who stays in school through her twenties.
“What do you say, Olivia?”
“Liv,” she says. “My friends and family call me Liv.”
“Does that make us friends?”
“Probably. I’d rather say I was at my friend Eros’s house during the storm. It has a better ring than saying I went home with a stranger.”
“By Wednesday we’ll be best friends,” I assure her, grabbing her hand.
I don’t know why I did it. There’s no way I can explain the sparks flying between us. I’ve never felt anything like this before. It’s so strange and yet, it feels perfect. Fitting.
Is there such a thing as being compatible with a perfect stranger?
Chapter Three
Olivia
I have no idea how we are going to make it to his house when everything is closed. Eros makes a couple of calls, and thirty minutes later an SUV is picking us up outside the airport.
“That was fast,” he tells the driver.
“There’s no one on the streets,” the guy explains. “As soon as I heard they were canceling flights, I thought you’d be calling. You took your sweet little time.”
Eros glances at me and smiles. “I had an issue that took longer to solve than I expected.”
“Get in the car. The roads are getting pretty bad, so this might be a long drive.”
“You have a driver?”
He shakes his head. “Not exactly.”
It feels awkward to continue our conversation in the car. I don’t know the guy who is taking us to Eros’s place. It’s past one in the morning when we arrive at his residence. I had no idea what to expect, but I open my eyes wide when I see the building.
“You live on Park Avenue?” I’m a little impressed at the sight of the limestone building. How rich is he? The entrance is covered with a small roof that has the building number. There’s a doorman inside opening the door for us.
“Eros, ma’am,” he greets us and nods.
“How’s the family, Norm?”
“At home, like every New Yorker. I thought you were visiting your parents.”
“The flight got canceled.”
“I hope you can get there before Christmas day.”
Eros smiles. “Everything is planned accordingly. I’m sure Mom’s already pulling out the tarot cards to confirm that I’ll be there. Or she’ll find one of those figurines she collects. There has to be one she can chant to so it’ll stop snowing.”
Norm shakes his head. “Does your mom know that you mock her this much?”
“Sure, and I’m still her favorite,” he claims.
“Have a good night, Eros.”
“Same, Norm.” He shakes the doorman’s hand.
“Good night, sir.” I wave and follow Eros toward the elevator.
I didn’t peg the guy as some rich kid living in New York. He looks normal. When we enter his apartment, I understand this is his parents’ home, assuming they’re archeologists as he claims.
“Your parents’ collection of artifacts?”
He shakes his head. “No, this is Gil’s place.”
“Who is Gil?”
“He’s my godfather. I’m sort of subleasing it while I go to school. The car was his. The driver works for him. I use him when I have emergencies,” he states.
I whistle. “You can afford to sublease this while going to school?”
“Fine. I pay for the utilities and keep the place tidy enough.”
The apartment is prominent, like one of those residences used as a movie set. I always imagined that New Yorkers lived in tiny apartments. I guess it’s all about perception and listening to people complain about their rooms being as big as a closet or not owning much furniture because their stuff doesn’t fit.