I shake my head, trying to ignore that thought.

Hugging my legs, I curl into a ball, laying my cheek on my knees. He must like me a little. He’s still here. I pull his shirt from beneath me and toss it away. I don’t know what’s going on, but face it, Chrissie, the guy isn’t interested in you.

I look up and Alan is standing in the open bathroom doorway, hair wet, and a towel hanging loosely from his hips. My heartbeat picks up and I am suddenly very hot everywhere. He frowns.

“Are you sure you feel OK, Chrissie? You’d tell me if you weren’t, wouldn’t you?”

He’s giving me that look, that one I really have grown to hate, the one guys give a girl when they are unsure if something is wrong with them. God, I’m behaving stupidly.

“Of course. I don’t know you well enough to lie,” I say in what I hope is a nonchalant tone.

Alan laughs. I feel each muscle in my body relax in slow increments.

“Do you think Jack would mind if I borrowed something from his wardrobe? I’m not going to have time this morning to swing by my place to change.”

I shake my head, though the thought of seeing Alan dressed in Jack’s clothes is just a touch creepy for me. He leaves my bedroom and I stay curled in my chair.

Minutes pass.

“Where is Rene?”

Alan’s rich timbre fills the apartment effortlessly. I rise from the chair and go into the hallway outside my parents’ bedroom.

“In DC with her dad.”

“For how long?”

“Until a week from Sunday. Her dad is getting married.”

“That can’t be fun for you. Are you going to DC or are you flying home early?”

Alan reappears in the hall, tucking his shirttail into his pants. He’s wearing a pink button down cotton shirt, a pair of worn jeans, and loafers. Somehow he makes Jack’s clothes look casually chic.

He lifts a brow. “Are you flying back to Santa Barbara early?”

I shrug. “I haven’t decided. Everything just changed yesterday.”

He smiles. “Have you decided what you want for breakfast?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s moving down the hallway to the kitchen. It’s almost as if he’s hurrying. Is this Alan’s version of the guy escape? Cook a girl breakfast, feed her, and run.

In the kitchen I find him going through the refrigerator, removing things and stacking them on the counter. It’s fully stocked. I hadn’t noticed. Jack must have seen to that before we left Santa Barbara. I never once thought about where the food came from. But the kitchen is fully stocked, and has been since we arrived.

“Would you like an omelet? Vegetable or meat? You have broccoli, you have peppers, and you have sausage, ham, bacon, a variety of cheese. Basically, everything for any kind of omelet you want.”

How does he know this? I don’t even know what goes in or how to make an omelet. Maria does our cooking. I don’t even know how to boil an egg. Alan looks right at home.

“I don’t care. Whatever is easier or whatever you’d prefer.”

“I like everything.”

“Then everything.”

I settle at the breakfast bar and watch him. I’ve never had a guy cook me breakfast before, and I feel a touch useless just sitting here. I watch him fill one skillet with bacon, and then bend to watch as he precisely turns up the heat. He moves to the coffeemaker and sets a pot to brew. He pours me a glass of orange juice and sets it on the mat in front of me.

“Don’t wait for me. Drink,” he orders. I lift the glass. I take a sip. I start to put it down. “All of it.”

He goes back to the stove. He turns the bacon. “Who brought you drinks other than the waitress last night?”

What an odd question. Why would he want to know that?

“Vince.”

“Just Vince? Or did Jimmy bring you drinks too?”

I don’t like the way he’s asking me that.

“I’m not sure. I don’t remember. Why do you want to know?”

He looks over at me. He smiles. It’s totally disarming. It bothers me for some reason and it shouldn’t because it’s just a friendly, no big deal kind of expression. I frown.

I watch him whisk eggs in a bowl before he pours the mixture into the heated skillet of melted butter. Damn, if he isn’t good at this. Where did he learn to cook?

“I have a thing in about a half an hour,” he says, carefully swirling the omelet in the pan. “A pretty full day.” He folds the omelet and slides it onto a plate. “I’ll swing by later to look in on you.”

Look in? What does that mean? What an odd thing to say.

He sets the plate in front of me. “Now, eat.”

I stare as he starts cleaning up his mess. “This looks good. Aren’t you going to make yourself one? Aren’t you going to eat?”

“My first thing is a breakfast thing.”

What is it about “thing”? Why does every male in my life take off for thing? I stab the eggs with my fork. Hmm… it is good, very good. He sets a cup of coffee in front of me.

I look up to find him smiling. “I’ve got to go, Chrissie. You should probably just stay in today. Take it easy.”

He doesn’t even wait for my answer. He disappears down the hall and I hear the elevator doors close.

* * *

My mood shifts immediately once Alan is gone. The rooms feel empty again. I set the candles in the living room ablaze and sit there and stare at them. I wish Rene were here. I can fight the mess inside me when Rene is near, since her mess is so much more naked and real and absorbing. What am I going to do for two weeks without her?

By two in the afternoon, that spacey feeling has left me and I’m sick of reliving minute by minute my latest encounter with Alan. I am crawling the walls of the apartment. For some reason, Rene hasn’t called today. I hope everything is all right in DC. Jack hasn’t called. A good thing, because after all that’s gone on the past few days, behaving normally in our completely abnormal father-daughter fashion just isn’t in me today. And as I suspected, hoping Alan would come back was a very foolish thing.

A familiar anxiety, impulse and sadness whispers through me. I stare out through the terrace doors at the April day. Get out of the apartment, Chrissie. I pull on a sundress and a pair of white Keds, grab my book of Chekhov and shove it into my woven rope tote with the small snack I packed in the kitchen. From the back of a chair, I grab the throw. It’s a beautiful day. I’m only a few steps away from Central Park. Get out of the apartment now!

Outdoors is not a good ally to Chekhov. I discover this after twenty minutes sitting in the sun and finding myself still on the page I started. The good weather seems to have brought out all New Yorkers. The park is busy and crowded, with couples, children, dogs, bikes, and a group of young college age guys playing hacky sack. There are other people here alone, and yet New Yorkers seem to do the alone thing so much better than I do. They don’t look alone when they are alone.

Chomping on an apple, I watch the playful dance of hacky sack. It’s better than watching the couples when you are a single. As I set down my book, I catch from the corner of my eye one of the guys giving me a fast once-over. He’s cute, with dark wavy hair. Sort of looks like Alan, though no one looks like Alan. I lean back on one arm and watch him. I tilt my face toward the sun, closing my eyes. I look back at him.

He smiles. I smile. His friend punts the sack farther over, nearer to me, and then he begins to bounce it from ankle to ankle, inching closer to me. After thirty minutes of watching them, one of them has finally noticed me with interest. Rene would have had all ten of them sitting on the blanket with us in half a minute. But Rene is not here, so I have to make do with my less than stellar skills if I don’t want to spend the next two weeks in total silence.

The sudden enthusiasm of his movements tells me he’s trying to impress me. He loses the hacky sack and tumbles onto my blanket at my feet. He pushes up on an elbow and smiles. “Hi.”