We Loved Until We Couldn’t Novel – Chapter 2
I’m twenty-three. I’ve been through college, and I’ve tried this same recreational drug a few times. So, no — I’m not about to judge this guy for lighting up on the roof.
But here’s the thing — he’s not alone. He just doesn’t know that yet.
He takes a long drag from his joint and starts turning back toward the ledge. He notices me as he exhales. The moment our eyes meet, he freezes.
There’s no shock on his face. No amusement either. He’s about ten feet away, and under the faint starlight, I can see his eyes slowly trace over me, expression unreadable. This man hides his thoughts well — his gaze sharp, his mouth set in a tight line. Like a male version of the Mona Lisa.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I feel his voice in my stomach — which is not good. Voices are supposed to stop at the ears, but once in a while, a voice slips through and vibrates right down your spine. His does that. It’s deep, confident, and smooth — like butter melting over a low flame.
When I don’t answer right away, he takes another slow hit.
“Iris,” I finally say. I hate how small my voice sounds — too soft to reach him, even though he’s only a few steps away.
He tilts his head, studying me. “Will you please get down from there, Iris?”
It’s not until he says that I notice how tense his posture is. He’s standing straight, almost rigid — like he’s afraid I might fall. I’m not going to. The ledge is a foot wide, and I’m sitting mostly on the rooftop side. I’d easily catch myself if I slipped.
I glance down at my legs, then back up at him. “No, thanks. I’m quite comfortable where I am.”
He turns slightly, avoiding direct eye contact. “Please get down,” he repeats, this time with a firmer tone. “There are seven empty chairs up here.”
“Almost six,” I correct him. “You tried to murder one earlier, remember?”
No reaction. No smile. When I don’t move, he steps closer.
“You’re three inches from falling to your death,” he says. “I’ve had enough of that kind of thing for one day.” He gestures toward me. “You’re making me nervous. And ruining my high.”
I roll my eyes and swing my legs back over the ledge. “Heaven forbid the joint goes to waste.” I hop down, brushing my hands over my jeans. “Better?” I ask as I walk toward him.
He exhales sharply — maybe from relief. I pass him to get to the other side of the roof, where the view’s better. That’s when I really see him — and unfortunately for my peace of mind, he’s beautiful.
No. Beautiful doesn’t even cover it.
Well-groomed, expensive-looking, probably a few years older than me. His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, his lips perpetually on the edge of a frown. When I reach the railing, I lean forward, pretending to admire the street below. I refuse to act impressed.
His haircut alone tells me he’s used to people being impressed. And I’m not about to feed that ego — if he even has one. Still, he’s wearing a casual Burberry shirt. I don’t think I’ve ever stood this close to someone who could wear Burberry casually.
Footsteps approach from behind me. He leans against the railing beside me and takes another hit before offering the joint my way. I shake my head. The last thing I need is to be high around someone like him. His voice is intoxicating enough.
I want to hear it again, though, so I ask, “So what did that chair ever do to you?”
He turns his head toward me, really looking now. His gaze pins me, dark and steady — like he’s reading every secret I’ve ever tried to hide.
He doesn’t answer, which only makes me more curious. If he’s going to order me off my peaceful ledge, the least he can do is entertain my nosy questions.
“Was it a woman?” I ask. “Did she break your heart?”
He lets out a soft laugh. “If only my problems were as simple as heartbreak.” He shifts so that he’s facing me, shoulder against the wall. “What floor do you live on?” He pinches out the joint and slides it back into his pocket. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“That’s because I don’t live here.” I point across the street. “See that insurance building?”
He squints. “Yeah.”
“I live in the building next to it. It’s too short to see from here — only three stories.”
He turns back to me, leaning his elbow on the railing. “If you live over there, why are you here? Boyfriend live here or something?”
The comment lands wrong — too easy, too lazy a pickup line. Someone like him doesn’t need to try that hard. Which somehow makes it worse.
“You have a nice roof,” I say flatly.
He raises an eyebrow, waiting for more.
“I needed fresh air,” I admit. “Somewhere quiet to think. So I pulled up Google Earth, found the closest building with a decent rooftop patio, and… here I am.”
His mouth tilts, almost a smile. “At least you’re economical,” he says. “That’s a good quality to have.”
At least?
I nod, pretending not to overthink it. “Why did you need fresh air?” he asks.
Because I buried my father today. Because my eulogy was a disaster. Because I feel like I can’t breathe.
But instead of saying any of that, I face forward again. “Can we not talk for a while?”
He seems relieved, oddly enough. He leans over the railing and lets one arm hang loose as he stares down at the street. I keep watching him. He probably knows, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“A guy fell off this roof last month,” he says suddenly.
I almost tell him I wanted silence — but curiosity wins. “Was it an accident?”
He shrugs. “No one knows. Happened late one evening. His wife said he came up here to take pictures of the sunset.”