Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy

“It’s not how long you wait, it’s who you’re waiting for.”

— Some Like It Hot (1959)

“He’s so freaking pretty.”

“I know!” Over a week later and I was still feeling mildly harassed by adult Des’s handsomeness.

That said, I felt more attacked by his personality. Violently attacked. He had no business being so cute. And then so stern. And then so cute again.

No. Business.

“It’s alarming.” Grace set her cup of wine on the coffee table. She leaned back on her hands, her legs stretched out in front of her. “He’s like a—a supermodel.” Her eyes were cloudy, likely with the memory of meeting Des last week for the first time in over ten years. “And he’s got every angle covered. Left. Right. Bottom. Top. His left side is a bit better than his right though. Something about the left side of his chin hits different.”

“You checked out all his angles?”

“Occupational hazard.” Grace shrugged.

I nodded. “Makes sense.”

“Anyway.” Her gaze zeroed in on mine felt scrutinizing. “How’re you holding up? Ready to talk about it?”

Sliding from the couch, I joined her on the floor. Even if Grace hadn’t been busy, I’d been in no mood to discuss Des or our parents’ friends’ antics at the barbecue until tonight. Playing the interactions over and over again in my head—especially the one before he left, when he’d kissed my cheek—made me feel worse.

“I don’t know.” I rubbed my forehead and eyed the wine I’d poured into the drinking cup.

I wasn’t much of a drinker. Our apartment had marsala cooking wine, and that was the entirety of our liquor cabinet. But Grace had been nice enough to splurge on a tin of Garrett Popcorn and a bottle of wine, thinking I might need them. I didn’t want her to drink alone, so I’d poured myself a cup. I was more interested in the popcorn.

“We could keep talking about how offensively good-looking he is,” she offered. “Like, again, what is up with his jawline? That shit is legit, like it’s carved stone. I’ve always been a sucker for jaws.”

I lightly hit her thigh with the back of my hand, nodding again. “That’s what I said to you on the phone after that rich people party! It looks photoshopped. Unreal.”

“You were unhinged on the phone when you called that night. Ranting about how his attractiveness should be against the law. I couldn’t take you seriously until I saw it in person.” Grace squinted at me and poked my arm. “Hey. Why don’t you sound flustered about his face anymore?”

Giving myself a mental high five for not sounding flustered, I shrugged like a liar and dodged the question. “Should I be?”

“No idea. I was flustered when he walked into the basement. I think my cheeks turned red.” She pressed her palms against her cheeks but continued peering at me. “So what are you going to do?”

“About what?”

“About Desmond.” Her hands dropped from her face and she picked up her wine. “Are you two going to, I don’t know, hang out? Be friends again? Or what?”

“No.”

“No? To which question?” She sipped her wine.

“No to all of them.”

“What?” Grace lowered her cup. “Why not?”

“He has no interest in knowing me.” The words came easier than they ever had before, perhaps because I’d finally accepted them and had decided to finally start living my life. Or perhaps because I currently felt very confused after seeing him. And numb.

“He said that?”

“Yes. He said that ten years ago, the last time we spoke on the phone.” I reached for my wine cup but didn’t drink. I needed something to do with my hands.

“No, my gorgeous little sister. I mean, when he came over on Sunday. He said he has no interest in knowing you?”

“He doesn’t need to.” I stared at the red wine in my hands. “As I’ve explained, he already told me ten years ago.”

I felt her eyes move over me. “Then why did he come?”

“I forced him.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“I dunno.” I set the cup back on the table and crossed my legs. “I guess I wanted to do something nice for everyone. Dad misses him. So does his dad. And Uncle Alex. And Aunt Marie. They all miss him, and he never comes to anything.”

“So”—she poked me again—“not for yourself?”

I glanced at her. “Hmm?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m asking. You must’ve wanted to see him and talk to him. What did you guys talk about when we left you in the backyard?”

“Nothing much.”

“Well, what’s he doing? Where does he work? Did he graduate from college? Or go? Where is he living? No one seems to know.”

I shrugged. “I have no idea. He didn’t say anything about that stuff, and I didn’t ask. Uncle Dan warned me not to ask too many questions, so I didn’t.”

“He seemed okay though. Like, when he left ten or so years ago, he was really sick. But he seemed totally fine on Sunday.”

“Yeah. He did.” Once I’d disentangled myself from my feelings about seeing him again, I’d felt both relieved and happy that he seemed to be doing so well. If I didn’t know his history, I never would’ve guessed he’d ever had a mental disorder. Whatever he’d been doing for it must’ve been working. Then again, and obviously, it’s impossible to judge someone’s mental health condition based on outward appearance. Regardless, he seemed good. Stable. Content. “And I’m really glad.”

“Did you talk to him about that?”

I shook my head. I wouldn’t know how to bring it up let alone whether I should broach the topic. Do people with bipolar want to be asked how they’re doing with their illness? Unlike cancer or other chronic health conditions, it didn’t seem appropriate to ask, Hey, so, how’s that mental illness going? Is it getting any better, or what’s happening with that? Would chicken soup help?

“I know you still miss him.” Grace made a pouty face. “You should’ve asked him to meet up again while he’s in town.”

Frustrated with her pushing, I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, “Again, and for the last time, he doesn’t want to know me!”

She knocked my hands away from my face. “I’m not hard of hearing.”

“Then listen and believe what I’m saying. Why would I ask him to meet up? I’m not wasting my energy on someone who doesn’t want to know me.” Picking up the large container of Garrett Popcorn, I sifted through it until I found the perfect caramel-covered puff. Plucking it from the tin along with a well-seasoned cheesy popcorn, I popped both in my mouth.

Meanwhile, Grace—glaring at me—exhaled harshly, sounding frustrated. “You should’ve talked to him about it at the barbecue, asked if he still felt the same way. Why can’t people talk to each other?”

“What do you want me to do, Grace?” I said after I swallowed my food. “He said, and I quote, ‘Stop calling me. I’m never going to want to talk to you. Leave me alone.’”

She rolled her eyes. “Why can’t you understand that ten years is a long time? People change. You were both little kids.”

“We were fifteen and nothing has changed.” I began a new hunt for another piece of perfect caramel popcorn.

“Fifteen is little kids, especially when we’re talking about you and emotional maturity. And he was really sick. You should’ve⁠—”

“What? Asked if he wanted to know me again? Why? Why would I do that to myself?” Why would I do that to him?

A rising emotion made my larynx feel tight—a frequent sensation since seeing Des again—and I shoved it away, clearing my throat. I would not give in to my childish, overdramatic tendencies. I would be demure and circumspect and very mature.

Grace said nothing for a time, but I felt her eyes on me. I don’t know what her expression was because I kept my attention focused on the large popcorn tin.

Eventually, much to my irritation, she said, “He really broke your heart, huh?”

My answering laugh was watery, my chin wobbling. I wasn’t sure how to respond. Then and now, it felt like he’d broken more than my heart, but not in the way she meant.

“You need to move on.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“You can’t keep comparing all guys to Desmond Sullivan. It’s not fair to you or to your boyfriends. Everyone will fall short because they’re not him.”

“I don’t compare my boyfriends to⁠—”

“Yes! You do! You’re not a crocodile, stop floating down de-Nile. You expect every potential boyfriend to be your best friend before you catch feelings, so you never catch feelings. Give a new guy a chance to be himself, not better or worse than Des, just himself, and⁠—”

“I can’t force myself to like someone!” I yelled, because I could with Grace. Despite my efforts to be circumspect and mature, I was ridiculous, with big, ridiculous, irrational feelings that made people unrelated to me uncomfortable. I was so grateful for my sister. Sniffling, I blinked my eyes and looked up at the ceiling. “If I could, I would stop comparing people to Des. I don’t know why I can’t seem to stop comparing everyone to him, it makes no sense.”

“Like I said, it’s because you expect your boyfriend to also be a best friend, like how Mom and Dad are, and not all guys can do that for their partner.”

Sighing wretchedly, I picked up the Garrett tin and repositioned it. “I wish Mom and Dad had been a little less perfect together.”

“Me too.” Grace and I shared a commiserating look. “They set unrealistic expectations, and now we’re all doomed to relationships that pale in comparison.” She reached for her wine and took a sip.

We sat in silence, each of us staring at nothing. I didn’t know what she contemplated, but my brain was stuck in the moment where Des had kissed my cheek. Why had he done that? Did he feel sorry for me? Had it been a pity kiss?

I’d given a guy a pity kiss before. It seemed like a compassionate thing to do at the time, and it had made him so happy. Now I was questioning my entire history with men, reevaluating all my decisions, realizing that sparing feelings was so much crueler than simply being honest.

I would never give anyone a pity kiss ever again. I would never be nice in order to spare feelings. Never again.

Grace was the one to break the silence. “Not to change the subject, but have you made up your mind about the beach over the Fourth of July?”

Grimacing, I ducked my head. “Eh. I don’t know. I’m not a big fan of the beach, and there’s all that sand, and packing is such a hassle. Plus, I need a new bathing suit, and what if I can’t find one? And you know how I feel about wearing a bathing suit in public. And my favorite murder podcast always does a live stream over that weekend, and I don’t want to miss that. And⁠—”

“Why am I not surprised you talked yourself out of taking a vacation or doing something fun? You always do this!” She made no attempt to hide her eye roll.

“Fine! I’ll go. Happy?”

“No, you won’t go. It’s always been the same for the past ten years. You say you’ll go, but when it’s time to actually go, you’ll make excuses again. Forget it. I’ll go with my quiz team from the wine bar. You’re uninvited.”

If she expected me to argue, she would be disappointed. I felt relieved. That said, I knew once she left for the trip, I’d feel irritated with myself for not going. It was a vicious cycle and I was frustrating myself, as usual.

“Why am I this way?” I tossed my hands up, appealing to the ceiling. “Next time, don’t ask me until the day of the trip.”

“But you have to request time off. The trip is for a full week.”

My shoulders slumped. “I’m trapped by my own reasoning abilities.”

“It’s not reasoning abilities that are the problem. You’re afraid of doing anything that has the potential for embarrassment.”

She was correct.

She also wasn’t finished. “You should call Des and ask him to hang out. Stop being such a coward. What’s the worst that could happen? He rejects you again? So what?”

A sad, little involuntary whimper slipped past my lips and my head fell forward into my hands. “I won’t call him. I will . . . I will definitely forget him this time,” I promised myself and her.

Her tone sounded slightly superior as she said, “Everyone remembers their first love.”

This had me lifting my head. “He wasn’t—it wasn’t like that.” But it was weak, repeating the words I’d always said like a mantra. My heart ached.

Maybe it’s exactly like that?

Even if I hadn’t been consciously aware of Des being my first love then, adult Ava was more than attracted to adult Des now. There was no use denying it. I had a crush on Des. A big one. All it had taken was one afternoon in his presence and I’d caught big feelings. Ugh.

Like a mind reader, Grace patted my leg and said, “Oh, maybe it was all subconscious, but it was totally like that. Worse, even. He was so much more than a first love for you. He was like a limb. You two were so tangled up together, you didn’t know how to define yourself after he left. Even when he was in and out of those facilities, you guys talked on the phone constantly. And if you weren’t on the phone, you were writing him letters, or talking about him, or making presents for him, or planning a future for the two of you.”

“But, when I was young, I never thought about us being together together. I mean, I think we must’ve been ten or so, we made that promise to get married to each other if we were still single at thirty. But it was more like, I assumed he and I would move out of our respective parents’ houses at eighteen and live together for the rest of our lives. The end.”

“Says the woman who breaks up with all her boyfriends once they try to reach second base. You’ve left a trail of broken hearts and blue balls behind you,” she teased, her tone without judgment. She almost sounded proud.

Grimacing, I fished for a perfect piece of caramel corn and didn’t respond. I wasn’t going to force myself to be physical with someone when it didn’t feel right. Unfortunately, after dating so many guys and always being the one to initiate the breakup, I’d built the idea of having sex into something huge and unmanageable, like a skyscraper. Or a mountain. Or Greenland.

“You know I don’t want my first time to be mediocre. Is it so wrong that I want it to be special? Meaningful? I am interested in sex, and I definitely want to have sex. Eventually. But the person I eventually have sex with needs to be the right person. No one so far has felt like they were the right person.”

“How would you know? You never give anyone a chance.”

“Well, if they wouldn’t be so pushy about it, maybe I would give them a chance. No matter how nice they seem at first, they all have—like—an internal timer or checklist or something. Kiss on second date. Second base on fourth date.” I made a face. “It’s too fast. Maybe I need to take things slow, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

“What about that guy you dated for a year? Cole or something. You two only kissed.”

I made a grumbling sound without saying anything. I hadn’t dated Cole for a year, it was eight months. He’d been patient and had also wanted to take things slow. And I’d honestly tried to feel a spark with him. But after eight months of trying, I’d called it quits when he proposed out of nowhere.

Hold up!

I snapped my fingers and then pointed at Grace. “You’re forgetting about Josh. Josh and I made it to third base. I think if he hadn’t moved to California, he and I would’ve gone all the way. I really liked Josh. He made me feel things no one else has.”

Grace’s expression turned thoughtful. “You had a crush on him, before you dated him?”

“I did. For, like, a year after we became good friends. We dated for four months before he moved to California for medical school.”

She nodded, like she conceded my point, but then her eyes sharpened. “And there’ve been no crushes since?”

An image of Des flashed in my vision, the moment at the barbecue when he’d tugged on my shirt and wiped the tomato seeds from my face. My stomach fluttered. My chest felt tight and warm.

“Ava?” She lightly tapped my leg. “Anyone else?”

This time when I grumbled, I did say something. “I’ve only been actively interested in dating for five or six years. Give me a break.”

“The first time you asked me about anything sex related was—what? Nineteen? Twenty? But I’m not criticizing or implying there’s something wrong with you, not at all.” My sister held up a hand as though to ward off any complaints I might make. “Some plants’ flowers bloom early, some bloom late, some plants have no flowers. It’s a spectrum, but all plants are important and good. It’s all good. You were a late bloomer.” She reached over, grabbed a random handful of popcorn, and shoved it into her mouth.

My sister was seriously rubbing me the wrong way with this plant and sex stuff. Why push me about this issue and then be all lofty and preachy? I couldn’t help but think she was being horrible, saying things she didn’t believe, and pressuring me just to get a reaction. You know, like most siblings do.

Anyway, it was working.

Therefore, despite her assertions that there was nothing wrong with my “delayed” interest in sex and physical intimacy, I felt the need to defend myself and other people like me. “I don’t think that kids should be going around kissing each other and being physical like that. Kids are supposed to feel each other up and make decisions about their bodies before being trusted to vote in an election? No. That makes no sense. I wasn’t ready for that kind of stuff before nineteen, and it’s not good how it’s shoved down young⁠—”

“Okay! Okay.” She waved away my rant. “You’re welcome to your opinion on the subject. You weren’t ready before nineteen to get felt up and you don’t like getting felt up now unless you’ve already caught feelings. Like I said, that’s fine. So then why did you date guys as a teen if you didn’t want to kiss them?”

My scowl increased. Yeah, she was definitely trying to get a reaction out of me. She was trying to lead me to a particular conclusion. “Well, I stopped dating when I realized that was the expectation, didn’t I? I didn’t date anyone from sixteen to twenty-one.”

Grace shook her head, the motion striking me as sad. “Mom and Dad shouldn’t have sent you to those all-girls schools. Your childhood lasted too long. You were like a little lamb when you went to college. We babied you too much.”

“I liked those all-girls schools, and I liked my childhood fine. Thank you.” My neck felt hot. I was irritated.

My family had babied me, and I’d never minded. I loved it. They still thought I was cute, and I loved that too. Perhaps I did have an addiction to being doted on, but so what? I also doted on each of them. What’s wrong with wanting to feel loved and treasured, and wanting the most important people in your life to also feel loved and treasured? Why does our society insist on pushing children away from their families? Why must we all become islands of independence at eighteen? Rude!

“I’m not criticizing you.” Grace picked up my hand and gave it a squeeze until I looked at her. “You know I love you exactly as you are, and I wouldn’t change anything about you—for myself. But I do wonder if you would be happier in the world and with the world if you’d had more exposure to reality earlier.”

“Why do I need to be happy with the world?” I said grumpily, returning her hand squeeze, wanting to hold on to her. “Why can’t I be happy with my family and dissatisfied with the world?”

“Because your expectations of how the world works have always been rose-colored and shaded with simplicity, and so the world either lets you down or you feel like you’re letting the world down.” Her tone and expression were matter-of-fact. “For example, when you were fourteen or fifteen and making all those plans in your head for you and Des, what were you thinking? Like, the promise that you two would get married at thirty, tell me about that. Did you plan to have kids?”

My hand slipped out of hers. “Nothing like that. More like roommates. At first, I assumed we’d both be in college and then go to work. When he got sick, I assumed he’d live with me and do whatever during the day while I went to school and supported us both, no big deal.” In my immature, childish fantasy, I thought he’d spend all day drawing funny cartoons because he was so talented and clever, then make us dinner every night because he was such a great cook. Naturally, we’d split the rest of the chores. “Most importantly, we’d never be apart. That’s all I wanted,” I added under my breath.

“What if Des had a girlfriend? Someone he wanted to kiss and feel up?” she added with a smirk that made me scowl again. “What if he wanted to get married to someone and have her babies?”

Not liking the idea of Des getting married to anyone, even now, a new spike of something hot and angry rose within me. My words were clipped as I said, “I wasn’t thinking about things like that. I simply wanted to always be close to him.”

“How do you think his future wife would feel? And what about his medical care? Insurance? Or how about how his disorder impacted you? When he was diagnosed, weren’t you twelve? In your planning, did it ever occur to you before he disappeared that maybe you weren’t the right person to help him navigate that in the long term? Or maybe his bipolar might be a, you know, burden on your life?”

I reared back, another flare of annoyance sharpening my tone. “What? No! Absolutely not. Des isn’t—he wasn’t—a burden. I didn’t care if he were a robot or an alien or had bipolar or whatever. He was my favorite. Period.” Was she trying to make me mad?

“But maybe he thought he was.”

“What?” I snapped.

“Maybe Des thought he was a burden to you.”

Snorting, I shook my head. “Uh, no. There’s absolutely no way he thought that. I practically begged him on the phone to let me see him. It was my immaturity that was the problem.” I’d been the burden.

Abruptly, my anger deflated, leaving me with a hollowness in my chest. I hadn’t had any understanding of what Des’s diagnosis actually meant when he first got it. As Grace had noted, I’d been twelve.

Only after Des had cut me out of his life did I research bipolar disorder. I’d discussed it with my therapist and my aunt Sandra at length, but neither of them were specialists. The information they shared only frustrated and confused me.

They’d said people with bipolar had mood swings. But so did I. And they had trouble sleeping. But so did I. And they would get really sad sometimes. But I did too. Trouble concentrating, random bursts of energy, random elevated mood, random delusions of grandeur. I mean, who doesn’t experience these things?

As described to me, his symptoms sounded like a list of traits describing a typical human, especially a typical teenage human. These “symptoms” made no sense to my brain because if they were symptoms of mental illness, shouldn’t all teenagers be diagnosed as having bipolar?

After Des left and I was greedy for any mention of him, I’d eavesdropped on Aunt Janie ranting to my mom that even if a psychiatrist specialized in bipolar, it didn’t mean that psychiatrist was any good at their specialization. She’d said at the time, “Psychiatrists are incompetent at the same rate as any other job or specialty.”

Now that I’d worked for several years, I finally understood with extreme and painful intimacy how much my aunt had been correct. Incompetence was everywhere. EVERYWHERE! It was one of the constants in life: death, taxes, change, cockroaches, and incompetence.

He must’ve been struggling so hard. And what had I done to help him? Demand he make me butter chicken and watch my favorite movies?

“Give yourself a break.” Grace grabbed another handful of popcorn.

My gaze refocused on my sister. “What?” I’d lost my place in the conversation, my mind having wandered.

“You were only fifteen. Expecting a fifteen-year-old to comprehend a complicated mental illness when even professionals in the field are still grappling with said illness is the definition of true insanity. And maybe you weren’t mature enough to realize it at the time, but we all knew you loved him. Deeply.” She sighed again. “It’s okay to never get over him.”

“I wasn’t mature enough,” I mumbled, not responding to Grace’s statements about me loving him so much.

The complex mixture of pining for Des paired with self-recrimination and regret made my chest ache, filling the hollowed space. As I grew into adulthood and experienced real life away from the shelter of a loving family, I started to suspect that my immaturity, the demands I put on him, and my inability to comprehend his struggle were why he’d cut me out of his life, and why he didn’t want to know me anymore.

And I guess I didn’t blame him for that.

Not for the first time, I thought, It must’ve been exhausting for him, having a friend who was so self-absorbed and naive. How long had he simply tolerated me? How long had my feelings been one-sided? How long had I been ignorantly taking for granted that I’d meant as much to him as he had to me? And all the while, I’d been a drain on him.

“Ava?”

Once more, I blinked my sister back into focus. She was watching me but her features were free of sympathy. She looked curious. “What are you thinking about?”

“I think I’m glad he came last week,” I said and thought at the same time.

“Why?”

“I guess, in a way, Des—without meaning to—actually gave me closure this time. I’m glad I saw him.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?” she asked again, this time slowly, the single word full of suspicion.

For one thing, I proved to myself that I’m still capable of having crush feelings for someone. I would never admit to Grace that I currently had a crush on adult Des though. I’d get over it. Him. Eventually.

Instead, I smiled sadly at her funny face and said, “As you pointed out, he seemed to be doing well, really well. And I got to officially say goodbye. As long as he’s doing well, as long as he’s happy, that’s all I want.”

Grace’s expression turned sympathetic. I averted my eyes to the carpet. I’d never experienced any real hardships. I was too frivolous to deserve anyone’s sympathy. What I didn’t say to her was that, in retrospect, thinking things through, I guess I was glad Des had cut me out of his life when we’d been fifteen.

I wasn’t the friend he’d needed then and probably wasn’t a person he wanted to know now. And I hated nothing more than simply being tolerated.

Ten days after saying goodbye to Des forever, I was doing fine. Just fine.

Just. Fine.

“Here is good,” I said to the rideshare driver, leaning forward from the back seat of the Nissan sedan to point at the sidewalk. “I can walk the rest of the way.”

“You sure?” The woman’s eyes met mine in her rearview mirror. “I don’t mind.”

“No, no. It’s good. Driving to the other side of this building will be a hassle. Please, no worries.”

“Okay.” The driver flipped on her blinker while I gathered my belongings, careful to handle the new client folder nicely.

As much as we should, and as much as we’d love them to, paper marketing materials were never going to be obsolete. A wee little thumb drive that a new client had to plug into their computer, and then open, and then click through, et cetera, was nowhere near as effective as a slick, pretty folder filled with paper brochures, snazzy forms, and enough stock photography to make new clients wonder if our office was full of models from Russia (because most stock photos of office environments are from Russian photographers and include Russian models, according to my sister).

Anyway. Enough about Russians in business-appropriate attire vaguely gesturing to oddly large computer screens.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from this new client. All I’d been told was that it was a personal account, single filer, no pending investigations, the last name was Quail, and they’d asked for me by name. No one ever asked for me by name. Why would they, I was only a second-year attorney and my primary role was “fixer” behind the scenes.

But my boss had insisted this morning via a handwritten memo left on my desk that Mr. Quail was someone he needed me to meet, alone, and with a new client folder—aka an onboarding packet—and I had no idea why. He hadn’t responded to my email, text, or call seeking details. I’d never onboarded a prospective client, but I wasn’t nervous. Either the dude signed on the dotted line or he didn’t, made no difference to me.

Bag and new client folder in hand, I waited until the driver pulled up to the sidewalk, then I said a quick, “Thanks so much,” and stepped out. I would’ve left her a big tip, even if the client hadn’t been paying. She seemed really nice.

My bright yellow stilettos made a sound like clock, clock, clock against the cement as I circled the tall building. They were my favorite shoes and usually made me an inch or more taller than all men in any given room. Nothing disorients men more than a woman who is taller than them, and witnessing their disgruntled, bemused faces when I shook their hands never failed to amuse me.

Searching for the main entrance, I had to squint against the sun’s reflection in the skyscraper’s all-glass exterior. The Harding Building was a new construction, opened a few months ago, and had that newfangled ultra-modern feel to it.

Since the Chicago spring day was surprisingly warm, I shifted my bag and the folder to my other hand as I removed the pale gray jacket that matched my skirt. Beneath I wore my favorite bright blue button-down business shirt and I didn’t want to sweat.

Usually, I could get two or three wears out of an outfit before having to have it cleaned. Dry cleaning was expensive and, in my case, not tax deductible. If only I’d been a stripper.

Completely unrelated to strippers, I felt the fine hairs at the back of my neck prickle and a faint shiver race up my back, like wind over bare skin. This same thing had happened to me a few times two weeks ago but then suddenly stopped. I didn’t have a superpower instinct about being watched, not any more or less than most women do, but I felt like I was being watched.

Aunt Janie—Des’s mom—had told me once that there’d been actual psychosocial studies done to investigate the phenomena of women’s superior situational awareness (i.e., their sixth sense of being watched or predicting danger). Apparently, a woman will sense and notice being watched anywhere from ten to one hundred times faster than a man, controlling for various variables like age and socioeconomic status.

On instinct, I slowed my steps and studied my surroundings, searching for the source of my discomfort. Like two weeks ago, I found nothing, even when I looked behind me. The sidewalk was wide and lined with giant pots that held large trees. This was a busy part of downtown. Plenty of people were out and about. I found no one watching me.

Giving myself a small shake, I turned halfway back in the original direction I’d been walking when my gaze caught on a reflection in the Harding Building. A man. I hadn’t seen him when I’d scanned the sidewalk because he was crouched behind the third tree pot from my position. Likely, I wouldn’t have noticed him at all if he hadn’t been wearing a black hoodie with the hood up—the rim of a black baseball hat sticking out and dark sunglasses veiling his eyes—black plants and black boots. On any other day, this attire wouldn’t have caught my notice, but it was warm. And sunny.

And because of the weather, his reflection and what he was doing stuck out like a Kanye West fan at a Taylor Swift concert.