Purely Unconditional: A Romantic Tale of Snow Days and Second Chances Read Online Free

time a
storm hit that bad was when Dorothy got swept up to Oz. Well, I got
swept up alright. I’m just still not sure where I landed. I think I
may have broken my tail bone in the fall.
    Don’t think about him. Don’t think about that
night.
    I watch as the numbers above the elevator door light
up. By the time it hits the ground floor, I’m like a sardine
jam-packed in the little car. But it’s lunch time and I’m on the
top floor. What can I expect?
    The cacophony of the city pours over me as I leave
the office building and head out to lunch. Cars honk, people
chatter on phones, a swarm of kids in blue and white uniform walks
past, yipping like little puppies at play time. A bus lumbers and
hisses down Strait Avenue. The smell of exhaust and coffee compete
in the air for ultimate supremacy.
    Born and raised in the suburbs, I was unprepared for
the sheer volume of city living. I didn’t sleep well for a month;
even the street lights seemed way too bright. But after five years
as a city mouse, I have officially become immune to all of its
belches and yawns and screeches and sighs.
    A woman walking four huge St. Bernard dogs is yelling
for them to slow down. Another pack of students stare up and point
at the different buildings, clearly admiring the chrome and steel
architecture. A dozen Red Hats peck and chirp about the way the
bare branches of the trees are draped with lights.
    The Plaza is jumping today, busier than usual.
Comprised of a handful of skyscrapers (they can house anything from
government jobs to law firms to tax offices to debt collectors and
anything else you can think of that you wouldn’t want any part of)
with a huge ice rink at its center, it’s one of four places in all
of Silver Lake you can say without preamble and people will
immediately know where and what you’re talking about. I work in
Plaza Building Four, the main hub of all things non-profit. At
fifty-three stories high with four gigantic spires atop it, it’s
like a metallic rook on a chessboard. Smaller buildings—cafes,
fast-food eateries, specialty shops—are dotted throughout, mere
pawns amidst kings and queens and bishops.
    I begin the short journey to the bistro down the
street but, to my surprise, I hear footsteps right behind me. I
turn.
    Jack.
    “Oh my God,” I say. “I can’t believe you’re following
me.”
    “I’m just out to get some lunch.”
    “Uh-huh. Sure. Didn’t your mother ever tell you it
was rude to lie during Christmas?”
    He has grace enough to smile. He easily steps up
beside me. His black coat hangs elegantly on his spare frame, the
collar turned up. His green scarf makes his blue eyes look like an
ocean.
    “Alright,” he concedes, “maybe I did decide to take
my lunch the minute you did. But I’m not following you. That has
such a negative connotation.”
    “So what would you call it then?”
    “I’d call it a happy coincidence that I sort of
forced. Okay, look.” He stops walking and I stop too. The wind
shifts his hair in all sorts of becoming ways. “You want the
truth?”
    “It’s always preferable.”
    Another smile. The first time I saw that smile, I
nearly dropped my lamp.
    “The truth is,” he begins, “the truth is…” His mouth
is slightly parted, as if he’s weighing whether to speak. I can
practically see the wheels in his head spinning. But then his eyes
alight on something in the distance. I’m about to ask what’s wrong
when he stops a woman as she’s walking with a very polite, a much
too polite, excuse me miss.
    “Hi. My friend here”—he gestures to me—“loves your
hat. Isn’t that right, Glory?”
    I smile. “Yes. It’s very nice. Blue is my favorite
color. It’s very flattering on your skin tone. It warms it, you
know?”
    The woman gives me an unsure smile but says thanks
before she starts walking. As soon as she’s out of ear shot, I hit
Jack in his arm.
    “You idiot.”.
    “Hmmm, it was a bit clinical. I mean, you
complimented her skin tone. A