Dear Chicago
You'll never guess
You know the girl you said I'd meet someday
Well I got something to confess
She picked me up on Friday
Asked me if she reminded me of you
I just laughed and lit a cigarette
Said that's impossible to do
-"Dear Chicago", Ryan Adams
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She smiled at him over the rim of her glass, clear green eyes watching him intently, her stare direct but lacking the fire he remembered. He felt as if he'd been caught in a trap, in a place where time moved backwards and everything was happening over and over again and though he already knew how this would end, he was powerless to stop it. She was a nice girl, a good woman, and he knew he could do worse. He knew he deserved worse, and he knew that no one deserved to be used the way he was using her. But he had seen her, and her face and her voice and her laughter and her eyes had thrown his memory back and he had been unable to stop himself. He was willing, it seemed, to relive his past with this woman who knew nothing of it. He always knew he would do whatever it took to get back to Chicago, but he never fathomed he'd do something like this.
"You've gone somewhere else," she said softly, and he forced his mind back to the present, back to this woman and her kitchen and the tension that lay thick on the ground between them.
She really was beautiful.
"I was just thinking," he said, watching her shift as she leaned against the counter top, the plain brown leather belt resting against her blue jeans drawing his attention down to the curve of her hips. She had the kind of hips a man wanted to hold on to, the kind of body he wanted to draw closer to his own. But then, Chicago had hips like that, too.
He'd always called her Chicago, as if that was her name; he would always associate her with that place, with that time in his life, with that one perfect night that had left its mark under his skin. And when she'd crossed his path again, she'd been so different. It was hard to believe she was the same woman, and so he'd chosen to pretend that she wasn't. Chicago and Sharon Raydor might have inhabited the same body, but they were different people.
And this woman leaning up against the counter with her hips jutting out begging for his touch, this woman was someone else, too. She was a stranger who had the misfortune to resemble Sharon enough to draw his attention.
"What were you thinking about?" she asked, and he felt sorry for her, because he got the feeling that she actually wanted to know. And what could he say? I was thinking how much I wish you were someone else?
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Fifteen years before
"What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?" he asked, flinching inwardly even as the words left his lips. She was perfect, an angel in a too-short black dress.
She turned to stare at him, her green eyes full of enough condescension to make him want to keep talking to her. He was always drawn to women who looked down their noses at him.
"Did you really just say that?" she asked, arching one perfectly manicured eyebrow, and he laughed, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck sheepishly.
"Not the best line, I know," he said, and she hummed.
She hummed, and she turned away from him, long red hair cascading down her back in a sea of heavy curls he wanted to run his fingers through.
He wanted to see her eyes again, and so he dropped himself on the stool next to her, trying to catch her eye as she stared determinedly into her glass of wine. He was drinking a soda, only a few months sober, and he was beginning to realize what a bad idea coming to this bar had been. He wanted a double shot of something strong enough to give him the courage to speak to her with a confidence he only had when he was drunk.
He found his voice again after a moment. "I just meant, most people in this bar are cops," he stretched his hand out behind him, indicating the crowd (of mostly men) behind him, many of them there for the conference like he was. Just passing through the windy city before they went back home. Some of them were probably looking, like he was, for a chance to forget their old lives, even if it was just for one night.
If he was going to forget, he wanted her to help him.
"And you don't look like a cop," he told her, which was true. The hem of her dress barely fell to mid-thigh, the top cut low but not obscenely so, her heels so high it was a wonder she could walk in them at all. Thin, but curved the way a woman should be, graceful like someone who doesn't have to try to be so. And then there was her hair. Far too impractical for a police officer.
"I don't?" she said softly, and he couldn't tell if she was joking. She wasn't looking at him.
"Too pretty," he told her, immediately wishing he could take those words back when she scoffed at him.
"Is that really the best you can do?" she asked, and the words may have been cold, but she was finally looking at him, smiling ever so faintly.
Smirking really.
He shrugged. "I could lie if you want me to," he said, but she shook her head.
"I've got enough liars in my life already," she told him, and there was something in her voice that caused his eyes to flicker towards her left hand. A gold band stretched across her ring finger, a shining beacon that should have told him to turn his ass around and get the hell out.
But he couldn't, not now, because there used to be a ring just like that on his finger, and he recognized the darkness that sat just behind her eyes. She drew him in with every breath she took, and she had no idea.
"Then I'll only tell you the truth," he told her, and she smiled.
"Let's see how long that lasts," she said.
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Present Day
"Andy," she said, and he had almost forgotten what he was doing here. Who was this woman, and what was he doing in her kitchen? His brain struggled through a haze of memories to stay with her. "I'm glad you're here." Her voice was barely more than a whisper, and though he knew what she wanted from him, knew what he wanted from her, he found himself unable to move forward. It should have been easy, really, to cross the small space between them and pull her into a kiss, but his feet wouldn't move.
So he spoke instead. "Me, too," he said, resisting the urge to stuff his hands deep in his pockets.
And that was the first lie he told her.
He followed it up with another. He reached out and caught her hand, drawing her to him. She fit him well; not perfectly. She wasn't quite as tall as Sharon, and she didn't move with the same easy elegance, but then no one moved like Chicago.
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Fifteen years before
"You wanna dance?" he asked her suddenly. He could see the mild surprise written on her face; their conversation had been going well, and he really wasn't much of a dancer, but it seemed like the thing to do. He was having a good conversation with a beautiful woman in a crowded bar, he figured he should probably dance with her.
If she was surprised that he asked, he was floored when she accepted. He took her by the hand and led her out into the throng of dancers, the song comically slow and barely audible over the noise of the bar. She fit in his arms just the way he'd always wanted someone to, just tall enough in her heels, the perfect height for him to lean down and kiss her, if he wanted to.
And he did want to, so after a moment he did, and she didn't stop him.
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Present Day
The woman in his arms pulled away ever so slightly, staring up at him through thick lashes. She was smart, this one.
"Why do I feel like you're not really with me?" she asked, and he just stared down at her, because there was no way he was being that obvious.
She disentangled herself from him completely then, crossed back to the counter, pulled open a drawer. Removed a pack of cigarettes. Lit one.
"You want?" she asked, waving the smoke in his general direction, but he shook his head. She seemed older, suddenly, and that reminded him of Sharon, how she was the most beautiful thing in the world but every once in awhile, for the briefest of moments, the effects of all the terrible things she'd seen and done would splash across her face.
"What's her name?" this woman asked, and once again, he was just staring at her. How does she know? "The woman I remind you of. What's her name?"
Maybe he would take that smoke. He lit a cigarette for the first time in years, even though there was a toothpick in his jacket pocket. He considered lying; he had done it before.
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Fifteen years earlier
He woke to the sound of her zipper. He struggled to focus in the semi-darkness of the early morning, searching until his eyes found her. She was back in her dress and her too-tall heels, perfect hair framing her face, hiding the hickey he'd left on her neck from sight.
"Hey," he said, and she smiled. She had a brilliant smile.
"Hey," she answered, leaning over the bed to kiss him softly. He tried to pull her back down with him, but she broke away. "I have to go," she said, her voice low and tinged with a regret he knew too well.
"Your husband will be waiting," he said, trying to keep his eyes on her face instead of the little gold ring on her finger. They hadn't talked about her husband, or his wife, or anything at all about themselves. He didn't know her name, and couldn't remember if he'd told her his. He didn't think so. What he did know was that she was smart and she was warm and she had a beautiful smile, and he found himself drawn to her in a way he had never felt with anyone else, ever. He wanted her, not just in his bed, but in his life. He wanted to know what it might be like to eat breakfast with her on a regular basis. He wanted to introduce her to his friends and watch them scramble to keep up with her biting wit.
"I have a plane to catch," she said, narrowly dodging the subject of her husband as she began to search for her purse.
"Wait," he said, scrambling to his feet. "Tell me your name. Tell me how to find you again."
She laid a gentle hand on his cheek, her smile too sad for this time of the morning. "Oh, sweetheart. You'll never find me again."
Her fingers were on the doorknob, she was poised to walk out of his life, and he couldn't let her go, not yet.
"We could be something, you and me," he said quickly, believing his words even less than she did. He wanted them to be something, sure. But him and Chicago? They had no chance at a future together. She was a nameless broad in a city thousands of miles away from his home. And she said she had a plane to catch; she probably wasn't from Chicago, but somewhere else, even farther from L.A. and even more out of his reach.
She opened the door. "You'll be ok. One of these days you'll find a girl to take care of you," she said cryptically. "Just make sure she doesn't look anything like me, ok?"
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Present Day
"I always just called her Chicago," he said finally, and the woman laughed at him.
"That's a strange name," she said.
"Her name isn't actually Chicago," he said defensively, "but that's where we met."
The kitchen was filling slowly with thin, grey smoke, but it was her damn kitchen and she'd started all of this, so he couldn't bring himself to feel particularly guilty.
"Is she still there?" the woman asked him, and once again he found himself surprised by her, and the insightfulness he had never given her credit for before now.
"No, she lives in L.A. I just didn't know that when we met. Didn't even know her name. I thought I'd never see her again."
"Which was when?" she asked, and he wondered not for the first time if this woman was a psychiatrist or something equally as sentimental.
He had to think about that for longer than he could believe. "We met for the first time maybe fifteen years ago. I bumped into her seven years later."
"How long were you together?" she asked quietly, and he suddenly felt like the biggest ass in the world. He couldn't believe what he'd done; going out with this woman, coming to her house, because she looked like Sharon? How desperate was he?
"One night," he answered, not realizing how foolish that sounded. "Just the one night, in Chicago."
"Why just once?"
He shrugged. "We didn't meet again under the best of circumstances. She blames me for her divorce, among other things, and she's kind of hated me ever since."
"For the last eight years," the woman said in surprise, stubbing out her cigarette and lighting another one. "You had sex with her once and she's hated you for eight years, and yet you're still chasing her? That must be one hell of a woman, Andy."
She is, he thought, but kept his silence.
"Andy," she said, "I'm kicking you out now."
He nodded, and picked up his coat from the chair where he'd left it. She walked him to the door, wine glass in her hand again. He reached to open the door, but she caught his hand. He turned to stare at her.
"Is she seeing anybody? Chicago?"
He shook his head.
"Then here's my advice. Stop wasting the time of every green-eyed woman in this city and go over there. Apologize. Get down on your knees if you have to. Even if she still hates you, I bet it'll make you feel better."
She let go of his hand and opened the door.
"Thank you," he said, meaning it, grateful for her every kindness, but she just shrugged.
"Get out of here, will ya?" she said with a playful smile. "I'm going to get embarrassingly drunk and I don't need witnesses."
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