We Loved Until We Couldn’t Novel – Chapter 3
“He was a photographer. They think he was leaning over the ledge to get a shot of the skyline, and he slipped.”
I look over the ledge, wondering how someone could possibly put themselves in a situation where they could fall by accident. But then I remember—I was just straddling the ledge on the other side of the roof a few minutes ago.
“When my sister told me what happened, the only thing I could think about was whether or not he got the shot. I was hoping his camera didn’t fall with him, because that would’ve been a real waste, you know? To die because of your love of photography, but you didn’t even get the final shot that cost you your life?”
His thought makes me laugh. Though I’m not sure I should’ve laughed at that. “Do you always say exactly what’s on your mind?”
He shrugs. “Not to most people.”
That makes me smile. I like that he doesn’t even know me, yet somehow, I’m not most people to him.
He rests his back against the ledge and folds his arms over his chest. “Were you born here?”
I shake my head. “No. Moved here from Maine after I graduated college.”
He scrunches up his nose, and it’s kind of… hot. Watching this guy — dressed in his Burberry shirt with his two-hundred-dollar haircut — make silly faces is oddly endearing.
“So you’re in Boston purgatory, huh? That’s gotta suck.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
The corner of his mouth curves up. “The tourists treat you like a local; the locals treat you like a tourist.”
I laugh. “Wow. That’s a very accurate description.”
“I’ve been here two months. I’m not even in purgatory yet, so you’re doing better than I am.”
“What brought you to Boston?”
“My residency. And my sister lives here.” He taps his foot against the concrete. “Right beneath us, actually. Married a tech-savvy Bostonian, and they bought the entire top floor.”
I look down. “The entire top floor?”
He nods. “Lucky bastard works from home. Doesn’t even have to change out of his pajamas and makes seven figures a year.”
Lucky bastard, indeed.
“What kind of residency? Are you a doctor?”
He nods. “Neurosurgeon. Less than a year left in my residency, and then it’s official.”
Stylish, well-spoken, and smart. And he smokes pot.
If this were an SAT question, I’d ask which one doesn’t belong.
“Should doctors be smoking weed?” I ask, teasing.
He smirks. “Probably not. But if we didn’t indulge on occasion, there’d be a lot more of us taking the leap over these ledges, I can promise you that.”
He faces forward again, chin resting on his folded arms. His eyes are closed now, like he’s savoring the wind brushing against his face. He doesn’t look as intimidating like this.
“You want to know something only the locals know?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says, bringing his attention back to me.
I point to the east. “See that building? The one with the green roof?”
He nods.
“There’s a building behind it on Melcher. There’s a house built right on top of it — like a real house, with walls, a porch, everything. You can’t see it from the street, and the building’s so tall that hardly anyone even knows about it.”
He looks impressed. “Really?”
I nod. “I saw it when I was searching Google Earth, so I looked it up. Apparently, a permit was granted for the construction in 1982. How cool would that be? To live in a house on top of a building?”
“You’d get the whole roof to yourself,” he says.
I hadn’t even thought of that. If I owned it, I could plant gardens up there. I’d have an outlet again.
“Who lives there?” he asks.
“No one really knows. It’s one of the great mysteries of Boston.”
He laughs, then looks at me curiously. “What’s another great mystery of Boston?”
“Your name.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I slap my hand against my forehead. It sounded so much like a cheesy pickup line that the only thing I can do is laugh at myself.