Dana Cummings steps off of the EL platform and makes her way to the Starbucks on the corner for her daily mocha (grande, extra sweet). It's Monday, so it's crowded as usual with people trying to psyche themselves up for the full workweek ahead. Keeping a tight grip on her handbag, she waits for the barista to call her name.
About eighteen months have passed since she woke up alone in a fancy hotel room to room service knocking on the door delivering breakfast. A lot has changed in that time. It took weeks of interviews and testimony to explain her minor role in the downfall of Living Robotics to the Chicago Police, the FBI, and even the Treasury Department before they finally left her alone. She still can't believe that Lamar Blackburn, the company CEO and creator, had a direct role in hiring a hit squad to kill her. He seemed like such a nice man, so caring and invested in helping veterans and accident victims recover from terrible injuries with the prostheses he had helped develop.
The authorities still have no idea exactly what happened, but to hear the news media talk about it, a veritable gang war battle took place on Lamar Blackburn's property, and in the aftermath his body was found among many others. Most of the dead seemed to be mercenaries and freelancers, willing to kill anyone if the price was right. It was the top news headline for days straight until inevitably, a big political scandal hit and everyone moved their attention on to other things.
Dana somehow managed to stay out of the limelight for the most part, though the handful of bodies found in her apartment had not put her on good terms with her neighbors. She managed to stick it out in her old apartment for a couple of months despite waking up in a cold sweat on the verge of having full blown panic attacks, paranoia driving her to check all the locks and windows, even though it's pointless. Doors and windows are no match for bullets and men who are determined to kill her, she knows that better than most.
There are days when she feels the hair rise on the back of her neck and she is one hundred percent sure she is being watched, though she can't figure out by whom or to what end. Contributing it to lingering PTSD, she goes to a few counseling sessions, and things seem to take a turn for the better when she gets a phone call from a woman with a British accent notifying her that they'd like her to come interview for a job as a forensic accountant. The interview goes great and the job is almost too good to be true, offering a significant sign-on bonus as well as a modest pay increase over her old job at LR. The bonus is big enough for her to move out of Chicago proper into a homey duplex in Woodstock, close enough for her to commute via the EL to her new job with a minimal amount of fuss.
As for the man who saved her life, she still has no idea who he really was. She's been told that the name Christian Wolff was an alias. She cried after hearing about the gun battle at Lamar Blackburn's house, certain he would have been among the dead, and then cried again upon receipt of the Pollock painting that proved him still alive. She still gets tickled remembering how the movers had made fun of her for having a framed canvas of paint spatters and fussing over details of its packing and shipment. "It has sentimental value," Dana had told them, and it's true. That and the note he left her, folded and tucked the inside pocket of her purse, are the only mementos she has of him. Even now, she is not sure she has done anything to deserve "Wow" but hey, a girl can always hope.
Initially she had hoped that somehow, they would meet up again and she could get know her complicated, enigmatic savior a little better. She'd even done a little bit of reading up on autism so she would be better informed if she ever ran into him again, but deep down, she knows it's just wishful thinking. She'll probably never see him again, but hardly a day goes by when he isn't in her thoughts. Still, she is determined to move on with her life, and with that mind, she's dated a couple of times.
The first guy, introduced to her by a friend at a Fourth of July get together, seemed nice enough but alternated between disinterest and outright derision when it came to her career choice, so that was that.
Any relationship she might have had with the second guy ended before the first date even took place, in a weird twist of fate. They were supposed to be meeting an upscale restaurant downtown where she waited an hour and a half for him to show, and finally left, frustrated and embarrassed. A few days later, she learned through the grapevine that he'd been in a single car accident. When the police arrived at the scene and took his information, a computer check revealed outstanding warrants for charges of domestic violence, assault and battery.
On occasion, she still feels like she's being watched, but with the help of those therapy sessions and recent events in her life, she's decided to interpret it as benevolent, rather than malevolent since overall, things have improved for her in the past year.
"Dana?" The sound of her name brings her out of her reverie. Waving her hand at the barista, she accepts the offered coffee with a quick smile, turns to begin the search for an empty table and promptly crashes into the broad, hard chest of the man standing right behind her.
"Whoa!" he exclaims, reaching out to steady her.
Flushing with embarrassment, she blurts out an apology, "I am so sorry! Did I get any on you?" while searching his shirt front for any sign of spillage. Miraculously, they both seem to have come out of the collision unscathed and dry.
The man laughs and shakes his head, "Nope, so no harm, no foul. The Bears are still in dire need of good linebackers though, maybe you should give them a call," he teases, releasing his grip on her arm. He is handsome, and his eyes and hair are such a rich dark brown color they almost seem black.
She giggles at the quip, because the Bears really do need good linebackers, the defense hasn't been the same since Urlacher retired, and tilts her head as though considering the advice. "I may just do that. Sorry again, and hope you have a nice day."
The barista calls another name, "Brock?" and the man eases around her with surprising grace for a guy his size to take his drink. "You too."
She been stopping at this Starbucks for her daily mocha ever since she started her new job, and he is not one of the regulars she sees in the little shop, so she figures he must be visiting from out of town. Which is a shame, because she wouldn't mind running into him again, though she would prefer it be in a figurative instead of literal sense next time.
Still smiling, she walks away and finds an empty table against a window. After digging her tablet out of her purse, she settles in with her mocha. Movement through the window distracts her momentarily and she looks up to meet the gaze of the man she had plowed into earlier through the glass. He lifts his cup with a smiling salute as he passes by, and she grins, lifting her own in acknowledgement.
From that day forward, he's at the coffee shop every morning right around the same time she is. While waiting on their orders, they exchange small talk, and Dana learns that he is a contractor in town on business. He's thinking of moving to Chicago to be closer to his older brother, who apparently is the only family he's got left. Brock is charming and funny, with a hint of mischievous 'bad boy' attitude that would have driven her mom crazy. Sometimes when she is talking to him, she gets the oddest feeling that he is waiting for something. She has no idea what that might be.
That sense of being watched has been more pervasive than usual in recent days, but she is taking it in stride. It's pouring down a warm summer rain today, and even with a good raincoat and umbrella, she is pretty wet from the thighs down when she reaches the door to Starbucks. The coffee shop air conditioning has her shivering by the time she settles down in her usual chair, wrapping her cold fingers around her mocha as she brings it to her mouth to sip.
The rain has kept all but a handful of faithful regulars out of the Starbucks this morning, and she's disappointed but not really surprised to see that Brock isn't among them. She browses the morning news on her tablet, occasionally glancing through the thin veil of condensation on the window at the huddled dark figures hurrying along outside in the deluge.
A gust of wind snatches the door out of a customer's hand, and she looks back over her shoulder toward the door. It's Brock, and he shakes his head like a dog to send out a small spray of droplets everywhere. He runs his fingers through his hair and his eyes seek her in the small coffee shop, meeting her smile with one of his own before going to place his order—black coffee, straight up, as usual. It's the one thing she finds odd, because no one drinks just plain coffee at Starbucks, it's always an espresso with caffeine double-shot, or a triple venti, half sweet, caramel macchiato.
To her surprise, instead of heading back out the door once he has his cup in hand like he usually does, he walks over to her table, "Mind if I join you?"
"Of course not!" she exclaims while moving her purse from the other side of the tiny table to hang on the back of her chair.
He sits down across from her and regards her with a gaze that seems both thoughtful and speculative. After a moment, he props an elbow on his chair arm and confesses with a rueful chuckle, "I honestly didn't think this would take so long."
Dana blinks. "Didn't think what would take this long?"
"This." He gestures with one hand between them, and looks out the window, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, "Goddamn chicken shit" under his breath. Then he runs his fingers through his hair again, gives her his most charming smile yet, and asks, "So listen, you wanna go out sometime? Like for more than just coffee?"
Some of her uncertainty must show in her face, because he holds up his hands as though he's trying to ease her concerns, "Anywhere you want to go is fine. If you want dinner at a swanky restaurant, we can do that, or we can go someplace that's more casual. Maybe catch a movie? Or something more touristy, like check out one of the museums? I'm up for anything, really."
Searching his face for any signs of prevarication, she relaxes when all she sees is sincerity. Perhaps he was just nervous about asking her out? He has always seemed pretty self-assured but sometimes it's hard to tell with things like this. Dana finally smiles, "Sure, sounds like fun. We don't have to go anywhere fancy, so long as the food and the company are good, I…"
The ringing phone interrupts what she is saying. Brock's smile broadens as he pulls out his phone, glances at the display and answers it with a cheerful, "Yello."
Dana tries not to listen in on the one-sided conversation but it's impossible when he is sitting right across from her.
"Hey big brother, how ya doin'?...As a matter of fact, I'm sitting across from a beautiful woman, one, whom I might add, just agreed to go out with me….well what am I supposed to do? You never call, you never write…uh-huh… sure you were…Oh really? Well what are you gonna do, try to shoot me again? You better hope your aim's improved...well you know exactly where to find me, don't you?...hey brother, just keep this in mind…." he strings off something in a language that sounds like Chinese, and abruptly ends the phone conversation. She has no idea what his brother had said to him in the course of their brief talk, but Brock smiles and radiates pure satisfaction as he translates for her, "'The worst calamities that befall an army arise from hesitation.' Sun Tzu's The Art of War."
"Ah," she responds, and can't resist probing for more information on a portion of the conversation she had overheard, "Your brother tried to shoot you?"
He laughs and raises a shoulder in an easy shrug while elaborating, "In his defense, he didn't know it was me at the time."
Well, that didn't really explain anything at all. With a little shake of her head, Dana tries to steer them back to the previous topic, "Um, so did you have a particular day in mind?"
Brock's attention has drifted to the passers-by outside, and he makes no indication that he's even heard her.
She clears her throat, frowning a little. "Brock?"
The door dings as another patron comes into the coffee shop behind her, and he shifts his gaze back to her, "Hmm? Oh, yeah, about that…" The dark-haired man leans forward and rests his forearms on the table as he confides in a secretive tone, "See, here's the thing. I wasn't really asking you out for me. I was asking for him."
"'For him'" Now she's starting to get pissed off. Is this some sort of prank? "Him who?" she demands.
Brock doesn't answer with words, instead jerking his thumb at the tall man walking toward their table, and it's him.
Without thinking, she jumps up and throws her arms around him because he's alive, and sure the Pollock painting should have been proof enough, but it's another thing entirely to have him right here in the flesh. He is wet from the rain and so tense in her embrace she thinks he might be holding his breath, so she forces herself to let go of him and backs away, babbling an apology, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Oh my God. I just…I'm sorry about that…"
"He doesn't mind," Brock interjects, watching their reunion with a bemused expression on his face. "Do ya, big brother?" Christian—or whatever his name is—stands in silence, arms hanging at his side, staring straight ahead. "See? If he minded, believe me, he'd let you know."
Dana's mouth drops open as she stares between the two men, "Wait, this is your brother?"
"The one and only," Brock acknowledges with a grin, and rises to his feet. He straights out the collar on his jacket, announcing, "Well, my work here is done. I'll just leave you two alone so you can catch up. Oh, and Dana?"
"Hm?" she drags her gaze away from Christian.
"You seem nice and all, but if you break his heart, I'm gonna have to kill you," Brock states with a warm smile that doesn't match the dark promise in his eyes. "See ya around, Bro. You can thank me later." He strolls toward the door, pausing long enough to drop his coffee cup into the trash.
She's at a loss for words as she watches him walk out into the rain when Christian says something in a low voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that," she admits, peering up at him—she'd forgotten how tall he was.
"You can't break my heart," he repeats a little louder without looking at her. "Hearts can't be broken, unless they are frozen, like in liquid nitrogen."
Dana is unable to stop the soft giggle that escapes her at his literal interpretation, but at the same time, it reminds her of how different he is from every other man she's known. She gestures at the recently vacated seat across from her, "Have a seat, we can catch up on each other." Reclaiming her own chair, it takes her a moment to realize he's still standing there, towering over her even more now that she's seated. Suddenly worried that he's on the verge of walking out of her life again, she begs, "Please, just for a little while?"
Something in her tone causes his eyes to flicker in her direction, and then he sits down across from her, back stiff and arms held in a manner that seems better suited to a school boy who has been sent to the principal's office than a grown man. Not much has changed in his appearance since she last saw him, his hair is still neatly trimmed, but wet from the rain. He's wearing a field jacket over a comfortable knit shirt and jeans.
Never being one to let silence go wasted, she wraps her fingers around her coffee cup and beams at him, "I really am glad to see you. And especially glad to see that you're all right. When I heard about all craziness at Mr. Blackburn's house, I was worried that you'd been shot, or worse..." She goes quiet, remembering those hours after hearing about the gun battle and how worried she had been for him.
"I got shot in the leg," he informs her an even tone, looking at her directly for the first time. She's heard people announce they've gotten junk email with more animation.
"Oh my god!" she exclaims, her eyes widening at the matter of fact statement, and she darts a quick glance around to see if anyone overheard, but it's Starbucks. The handful of other patrons in the store are too focused on texting friends and working on manuscripts to pay any attention to them. Dana examines him for any lingering signs of injury with no small amount of concern. "Are you… you're ok though now?" He seems fine, but she had not really been paying attention when he walked up, so she didn't notice if he had been limping.
His gaze has shifted back to some blank point in space somewhere beyond her shoulder. "Yes."
A few seconds pass as she waits for an elaboration that never comes, and she'd just about forgotten how reticent and aloof he could be. But it didn't bother her eighteen months ago, before she even knew he was a highly functioning autistic, and it doesn't bother her now. She smiles, admitting, "Well, I'm glad. Really glad to hear that, actually. Things have changed so much for me in the past year. I had to move out of that old apartment, god, it was weeks before I could sleep without nightmares. I actually ended up going to some therapy sessions, like I had PTSD or something. But I got a job offer—a really good one actually—as a forensic accountant at Jacobs, Barkley and Moore. It's in that new office building the next block over. Sign-on bonus and amazing benefits, the works, like a dream job." He doesn't say anything but when she pauses to take a breath, he glances at her ever so briefly, so she chatters on, "I love it, and I feel like I'm really doing some good. I've been able to help out with a few big cases already, which was really exciting. Anyway the bonus was big enough that I could break my lease agreement and still have enough money to move, so I live in Woodstock now, in this cute little duplex. Great neighborhood, too, you know? It's within walking distance of the downtown square, which looks like something out of a movie."
"I know."
She wasn't really expecting an answer anyway, and his response catches her off guard. "You know?" she echoes with surprise, "Wait, which part?
His brown eyes shift to regard her again as he states simply, "All of it."
Dana leans back in her chair, her jaw slack. It takes her a minute to digest the entirety of what that brief sentence would entail. "You've been watching me?"
"Yes," he acknowledges, with the air of one who merely stating the obvious.
"Why? Why didn't you call me, or send me a text?" she demands, trying to ignore how much his announcement has hurt her feelings.
"They were watching you."
"What? Who?"
"The Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Financial Crimes Division of the Treasury Department, the Chicago Police Department, the Cook County Police Department, the McHenry County Police Department, the Woodstock Police Department, and Brax."
The expansive nature of that list is almost dizzying, and she sets her coffee down before she drops it. Suddenly, her normal routines seem a lot more sinister. The other patrons in the Starbucks are leveled a long look—have they been spying on her?—and she leans forward to ask in a low, worried tone, "They're still watching me? After all this time?"
"No, just Brax. The others stopped months ago," he tells her.
That one must be some official organization she's never heard of. "BRAX? What does that stand for?"
"Braxton. My brother."
"Oh." So Brock hadn't even been his real name. She nibbles her lower lip for a second, studying his profile. "I know your name isn't really Christian Wolff, so what do I call you?"
A muscle ticks in his jaw but after a long moment, he finally replies, "Connor."
"Connor." Dana decides it suits him. She extends her hand across the table toward him, tilting her chin upward with a hint of challenge. "Hello, Connor, it's very nice to meet you. My name is Dana."
He stares at her outstretched hand for a long moment before slowly reaching out to clasp it with his own. His grip is gentle without being limp, as though he's touching spun glass and not the flesh and bone of her hand. She gives his a light squeeze and shake before releasing, and Connor lowers his hand with that same deliberation.
"So why was your brother following me? How does he even know who I am?"
Connor doesn't say anything at first, just gazes out the window so long that she is on the verge of just changing the subject when finally he says, "He watched you because I watched you, and he was… curious."
She should be more angry about it all than she is, but given that in the end, Connor, formerly known as Christian, is sitting with her as a result of his brother's rather obvious match-making attempt, she is not going to complain.
"You're supposed to be at work in ten minutes." The reminder has hardly left his lips when her phone alarm goes off, alerting her to the same thing. She picks up the device, scrolls through a few options and presses a button to make a phone call. "What are you doing?"
"Taking a personal day," she declares, and makes the quick call into her office. After being there for more than a year without requesting a day off, her supervisor does not complain. She is smiling when she hangs up, but it fades as she looks at him—she didn't even ask him about his schedule first. What if he has to be at his own job? "Do.. did you have somewhere you needed to be? I should have asked first, I'm sorry."
A phone rings. Conner pulls it from his inside jacket pocket and puts it up to his ear without even looking to see who it is. "Yes… Thank you…. I know you don't…Of course." The brief conversation is over almost before it has begun and he tucks his phone back into his coat.
"Is everything all right?"
"Yes," is his brief response, but he offers no further explanation as to the nature of the call.
"So… were you free today? I don't usually eat breakfast, but if you want we could go get something more substantial…" she offers, but he interrupts her.
"I ate breakfast."
"Okay… hmm..." She mentally flips through a list of possible activities, some of which are hampered by the crappy weather, but the rain has started to slacken at least. Seeing a movie is out of the question, as it doesn't really give her an opportunity to just talk to him, but Chicago has many tourist activities and museums. All of a sudden, she knows exactly what they can do together. "There's a Cassius Marcellus Coolidge exhibit at the Art Institute that I've been meaning to check out, we could go see that?"
"I've already seen it."
"Oh," she deflates, now at a complete loss.
"I can see it again," he levels a steady gaze at her for a long pause before adding, "with you." And his face is as expressionless as ever, but she gets the impression that going to the exhibit with her is what will make this particular trip significant.
"Really?" Delighted by his answer, she gets her phone out to check the opening times before he can change his mind but he is way ahead of her, as usual.
"The museum hours are 10:30 am to 5:00 pm, except for Thursdays, when it closes at 8 pm. It will not open for another two hours and thirty two minutes." At her raised eyebrows, he admits, "I like the museum."
"Well I am not a fan of just sitting in Starbuck's for two hours," Dana says, wrinkling her nose before putting her phone and tablet back into her purse and getting ready to leave. "Let's go for a walk along Lake Shore Drive, or maybe Navy Pier while waiting for the museum to open."
Connor's gaze swivels to her. "It's still raining."
And it still is, sure, but she's not about to let that stop her from enjoying every minute of the time she gets to spend with him today. "It'll stop soon, I can already see some breaks in the clouds." she announces, getting to her feet and slinging her thankfully waterproof purse over her shoulder. "There's an old saying, about how, 'Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass, it's about learning to dance in the rain.' Ever heard that before?"
His brow furrows ever so slightly as he ponders her words and stands up. "No."
"Well, now you have!" Dana tosses her empty cup into the trash and heads outside. There's a small awning over the doorway, and she steps out from under it, looking up at the overcast sky, closing her eyes as she feels the warm rain drops spatter on her face and body. A poem she had loved as a child pops into her head, and she quotes it from memory, as best she can.
"I opened my eyes and looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head and flowed into my brain,
And now all that I hear when I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.
I step very softly, I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand, I might overflow.
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said,
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head."
Ebullient, she laughs at the sheer ridiculousness of the poem and looks back at Connor, who is still standing under the awning. "That's illogical. Rain doesn't do that. You can't overflow from looking up at the rain," he informs her.
"I know, but I still like the poem. Are you coming?" she asks, smiling at him.
He tucks the umbrella under his arm and steps out into the gentle rain, tilting his head back to look up at the sky in much the same way she had. However, he keeps his eyes open and is only able to hold the position for a second or two before a fat drop hits him directly in the eye. He shakes his head, squinting and knuckling the water out of his eyes.
Dana giggles, "Now you've got rain in your head too. You'll never be the same." Then she skips down the street in the rain, jumping into the nearest puddle just to see how big a spray she can get out of it.
Connor follows a few steps behind her at a slower pace that lets him avoid getting splashed. When she glances back to check on his progress, she sees he is mouthing something softly, so softly that it takes her a few seconds to hear it over the sound of rain and traffic. "I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head…"
*poem is "Rain" by Shel Silverstein