Years.
May 19th, 2012
Jon glanced over at the neon green numbers of his alarm clock– quarter past five, it indicated menacingly, like the digital contraption itself was pulling him away from his slumber.
But there was only one thought in his mind that he considered as the sunrise started to streak onto the dark hardwood floor of his bedroom through the blinds.
With a groan that muffled into his pillow, Jon twisted over onto his back and stretched every muscle of his body to try and relax. Unfortunately, the tension of his restless night, combined with the tension he carried on a constant basis, failed to return him to sleep.
"Fuck it," he swung his legs over the mattress and proceeded out of his room. His condo was in pristine condition considering how he planned to leave the day before. His refrigerator was empty, he suddenly remembered, causing him to slam the door and repeat the same expletive. Finally, Jon rustled up some crackers and peanut butter from the back of his pantry, licking some of the spread off his wrist that he carelessly misguided as he turned on his Keurig machine for a cup of coffee.
His suitcase and bag still lay untouched from the night before by the door. Moving to one of the barstools that sat in front of his counter, Jon snagged his iPhone from its charging area nearby.
Voicemail (1)
Hello Mr. Toews, this is City Cab Chicago calling in regards to an item left in the backseat of the taxi you took this evening. Your driver found a brown, leather-bound planner without a name, and we tracked this number down from your credit card information to see if it was yours. As it's getting late, please give us a call tomorrow morning– our customer service office opens at seven on weekdays and closes at ten. Thanks for riding with City Cab!
Jon crinkled his forehead for a moment, confused and staring at his phone. He certainly did not carry a leather-bound planner around–
–but maybe Gen did?
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
This is ridiculous, Jon thought to himself as he sat parked in his car across the street from the old stone house in Hyde Park. You are ridiculous.
The planner sat in the passenger seat. Jon had gone straight to the cab company once it opened, and being who he was in Chicago, it didn't matter that the thing wasn't actually his. After driving around the block a couple of times, Jon had finally parked his SUV and sighed loudly.
The cab ride back from the airport was fulfilling, to say the least. He and Gen shared some of their travel adventures with one another– Jon keeping a low profile on his profession and she, her education, until he asked where she attended school and what she was studying.
"I'm studying environmental science and public policy at Harvard," she'd said after a second of his inquiry, and looked out the window to avoid his eye.
"Harvard," he repeated, the prestigious school rolling out on his tongue, as his mouth went dry. "Jesus. I mean, well, wow, good for you."
"It's overrated," Gen continued to glance out the window. "College is overrated. I'm only still there because I'm made the sailing team and they're taking care of my tuition."
Jon sat silently, racking his brain for a response. Hell, he'd only gone to college for two years. Then again, he had a hockey career to pursue...
"I'm sorry, that must sound really pretentious to bitch about my scholarship and my school," Gen turned to him apologetically. "I forget that I should keep some thoughts to myself sometimes."
"Don't be. I'll just be honest and say that I thought college was overrated, too. I stayed for two years."
"You don't look like a college dropout," she teased.
"If you dropped out of college, how do you think you'd look?"
"I'd probably wear sweats all the time."
Jon joined in on Gen's laughter at this thought, until she spoke again.
"So then, what do you do for a living?"
"You ever watch a Blackhawks game?"
"A what?"
"Okay, guess not," Jon chuckled. "The Chicago Blackhawks are a professional hockey team. I play for them."
Silence. And then–
"Wait, for real?"
"I'm actually the captain," he added nervously and looked up towards the front of the car, meeting the cabbie's eyes in the rearview mirror. The driver burst out laughing, unable to help himself. He'd recognized his customer right when he pulled up to the curb of the terminal.
"Sweetheart, you're sharing a cab with the number one athlete in Chicago," he called back to her, and Gen's jaw dropped. "He didn't stop to sign an autograph or nothing?"
"No!"
"I did, actually, when you were getting your stuff at baggage claim," Jon admitted. "Just a couple of kids."
"Wow, um, okay." Gen nodded, still shocked but regaining composure. "Good for you, Jon."
"So why is college overrated to you?" He was relieved at how cool she took his profession. Normally with women, that wasn't the case.
"It's just the structure of it, I suppose. I have the utmost respect for higher learning institutions and academia, but I've never felt that I couldn't learn just as much about the world and life overall if I didn't have a degree. I'm learning wonderful things, sure, and they'll be useful for whatever profession I ultimately choose, but..."
Gen trailed off for a moment, running a hand through her reddish locks, now undone from the bun she'd previously worn. Jon looked at her, feeling himself absorb this infinite moment. She glanced at him briefly, and he smiled back, urging her to go on.
"Basically, I wonder if spending four years of my life cooped up in lecture halls and libraries keeps me from experiencing everything life has to offer. Which sounds dumb, I know, because an education will help me gain more enriched experiences, and I'm only nineteen and I have an entire life ahead of me, but, God, I dunno."
"Sounds to me like you're waiting for your life to start."
"Does that sound ungrateful and snide and totally ridiculous?"
"Not at all," said Jon, fighting the urge to take her hand into his own.
"But I've only just spent half an hour with you, and I don't know if I've met anyone more alive than you."
And you make me feel like I've never lived until now, he couldn't help but think.
There was a reason he didn't ask Gen for her number. As he waved back to her from the cab as it pulled out of her driveway, His heart was pounding, ringing in his ears and feeling heavier than he ever imagined it could as the car sped down Lakeshore Drive.
Jonathan Toews wanted to drown happily in Genevieve Whitby's ocean. He wanted to surround himself with all things Gen, all the time, and just hold her close to him whenever possible. But how could he do that when she spent only brief snippets of her time in Chicago? When she would rather spend her time in Minnesota, Massachusetts, New York, Alberta?
He wanted to know her for more than just a thirty minute cab ride, but not for less than a lifetime. Fear struck him with this notion as she had continued to talk, not noticing the profound effect she had upon him. Jon might as well have been melting into the badly stained backseat carpet and sweat-laden seat.
He shouldn't see her again. He wouldn't see her again.
But fate had another idea.
He now pressed the doorbell next to the red door of Gen's father's house, shaking as he did so.
A few moments later, the door swung open to reveal a graying man not much taller than he, inspecting him with round, bronze-framed glasses. The familiar honey-colored irises widened in Chicagoan recognition.
"Hello there," the man greeted him in a British accent that took him aback. "Did I win season tickets, or are you lost?"
"Neither, unfortunately, sir," Jon grinned at his humor, and then fell back into stoicism at the realization of where he was and who he was speaking to. "I was actually looking for Gen. Are you her father?"
"That, I would be– Oliver Whitby" Professor Whitby nodded, widening the door and ushering him in. "Come on inside. Gen just ran out about ten minutes ago to grab some buttermilk."
Thanking him and introducing himself properly, Jon took off his shoes and his eyes traveled around the vicinity, taking it in. The living room was an absolutely peculiar sight. Built-in bookshelves lined one wall, but aside from a few scattered textbooks here and there, the entirety of them contained jars of what Jon could only imagine a geology professor found fascinating. But other than the crowded wall, the room looked normal otherwise, with a couch, coffee table, and lived-in looking armchair and nearby reading lamp.
"Come on into the kitchen, we were just getting breakfast started," the professor gestured to the next area of the house. "I have a fresh pot of coffee for myself, and Gen usually has earl grey– do you have a preference of beverage?"
"Coffee sounds great," Jon responded, recalling how he cursed to himself earlier that morning for accidentally drinking decaf. He hadn't bothered to make another cup, however, as the cab company's voicemail awoke him easily. He now watched Gen's father move about the kitchen, pulling a few obviously home-crafted mugs out of the cupboard.
"Gen made these in elementary school," Professor Whitby turned up the bottoms of the brightly-glazed, slightly malformed mugs to show where his daughter had shakily etched her full name into the clay, "Genevieve" being so long that it broke up into three lines on the small, round surface. "She always complains about how awful her artistic ability was back then, but she managed to shape the rims so well that it's hard to drink from any other mug in this kitchen."
"Dad, are you embarrassing me?" A voice suddenly wafted into the kitchen from the front entrance and Jon laughed at the professor's remarks. "I hear you talking about those mugs to whoever..."
Footsteps crossed the floor of the house, accompanied by a rustle of a plastic bag, causing Jon to freeze until Gen finally came into view. The grin that had been stretched across her mouth now retracted into an "O" as her eyes met his.
She's creeped out. Beyond creeped out, Jon panicked in his mind.
Miraculously, though, Gen's shocked visage quickly returned to a smile. And she looked stunning, too, in a pair of emerald shorts and a chambray blouse. Her bangs were pinned back, but the rest of her hair fell loosely onto her shoulders. Her eyes were bright and inviting.
"Hi Jon, it's a surprise to see you again," she said, handing her father a carton of buttermilk for pancakes. "What are you doing here?"
"The cab company called me," he held up the planner with a sweaty hand. "Is this yours?"
"Yes!" Gen exclaimed gratefully as he handed the book to her. "I thought I'd left it at the airport. It must have fallen out of my bag when I was getting out of the taxi. Thank you so much."
"I'm glad I caught you before you left."
"Me too."
She met his eyes once more. With the look Gen gave him, Jon felt like she had wanted to see him again, too– at least he hoped she did.
"Have you eaten yet?" Gen asked, as her father handed them their mugs of tea and coffee. "Dad usually makes so many pancakes that he'll end up getting some of his students to come over. So we could use your help."
"Yes, please do, Jonathan, save me from my ever-expanding waistline and senior theses discussions outside of office hours," Professor Whitby piped in as he started up the pancake griddle. "And you shouldn't drink coffee on an empty stomach."
"No, that would be bad– the coffee, I mean," Jon clarified quickly and Gen smiled at him invitingly. "Yes, breakfast sounds great."
"I'll set another place at the table," Gen winked, moving past him towards the breakfast nook at the bay window. She placed a hand on his arm as she did so, and her touch, despite being so innocent and slight, made Jon's mouth go dry.
Is she flirting with me? She's not– that's not flirting. No. Probably not. Can't be. I hope so.
Breakfast ensued without a hitch. Though, Gen did blush slightly when the professor served her a Mickey Mouse shaped pancake like he'd always done since she was three. To ease her embarrassment, Jon asked her father if he could make one for him as well.
"My mom always says she's making us hockey puck pancakes," Jon said between mouthfuls of blueberry pancakes. "When my brother and I were younger, we thought there was a difference."
"That's something my dad would totally try and get away with," Gen murmured as the professor busied himself again at the griddle.
"Ah, yes. Remember that futbol I made you before we went to the Chicago Fire match?" Her father agreed, Gen's low voice clearly not besting his ears. He placed the final stack of pancakes at the table between the fruit and jug of orange juice. "Us parents have no shame, I'm afraid."
Gen and Jon laughed and more food continued to pass around the table.
"So when is your flight?" Jon finally asked.
"I haven't rebooked it, actually," shrugged Gen. "I think I'm going to stay in Chicago. I was only here for a few days, and it's nice to be back."
"Well darling, it's nice to have you here," her father smiled, and Gen patted his hand lovingly.
"I was supposed to head back to Boston in two weeks, anyhow, for training," Gen explained further, glancing back at Jon. "Going up to the lake would be nice, but my friends will survive without me until the fall. I wasn't too excited to go, anyways. Chicago seems like more fun."
"Chicago is a lot of fun as it gets warmer," Jon agreed. "Have you seen much of it?"
"Some, from growing up here. It seems like I spent most of my time at the UC campus, though," Gen grinned at her father knowingly before looking at Jon. "Are you leaving today?"
"I actually realized I have to take care of some business before I head back up," Jon replied without missing a beat. He was planning on missing Dave Bolland's engagement party that weekend, but it was now a good excuse to stay in town. If not, Gen Whitby was a good excuse to stay in town. "If you want, I can show you around the city while you're here."
Jon's eyes moved to Gen's hands, which clasped her mug. Elbows propped, his vision traveled in focus to her lips, which upturned and curved into a smile behind the rim of the mug. She sipped her tea delicately.
"That sounds wonderful," she replied.
At the same time that breakfast wound down and Jon offered to dry the dishes as Gen washed them at the sink, the first flight out of O'Hare to Winnipeg, Manitoba, started to board.
Mister Toe-ez, please report to Gate C5 to board your flight. Last call to Winnipeg. Mister J. Toe-ez...
Jon's suitcase remained in the trunk of his car for the remainder of the afternoon, soaking up the sun that shined over Hyde Park. It was only while he and Gen walked through the sand down South Shore beach swapping funny stories and getting to know each other more later that day, that he looked up at a plane flying in the sky, and remembered that he missed his flight.
But there was only one thought in his mind that he considered as the sunrise started to streak onto the dark hardwood floor of his bedroom through the blinds.
With a groan that muffled into his pillow, Jon twisted over onto his back and stretched every muscle of his body to try and relax. Unfortunately, the tension of his restless night, combined with the tension he carried on a constant basis, failed to return him to sleep.
"Fuck it," he swung his legs over the mattress and proceeded out of his room. His condo was in pristine condition considering how he planned to leave the day before. His refrigerator was empty, he suddenly remembered, causing him to slam the door and repeat the same expletive. Finally, Jon rustled up some crackers and peanut butter from the back of his pantry, licking some of the spread off his wrist that he carelessly misguided as he turned on his Keurig machine for a cup of coffee.
His suitcase and bag still lay untouched from the night before by the door. Moving to one of the barstools that sat in front of his counter, Jon snagged his iPhone from its charging area nearby.
Voicemail (1)
Hello Mr. Toews, this is City Cab Chicago calling in regards to an item left in the backseat of the taxi you took this evening. Your driver found a brown, leather-bound planner without a name, and we tracked this number down from your credit card information to see if it was yours. As it's getting late, please give us a call tomorrow morning– our customer service office opens at seven on weekdays and closes at ten. Thanks for riding with City Cab!
Jon crinkled his forehead for a moment, confused and staring at his phone. He certainly did not carry a leather-bound planner around–
–but maybe Gen did?
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
This is ridiculous, Jon thought to himself as he sat parked in his car across the street from the old stone house in Hyde Park. You are ridiculous.
The planner sat in the passenger seat. Jon had gone straight to the cab company once it opened, and being who he was in Chicago, it didn't matter that the thing wasn't actually his. After driving around the block a couple of times, Jon had finally parked his SUV and sighed loudly.
The cab ride back from the airport was fulfilling, to say the least. He and Gen shared some of their travel adventures with one another– Jon keeping a low profile on his profession and she, her education, until he asked where she attended school and what she was studying.
"I'm studying environmental science and public policy at Harvard," she'd said after a second of his inquiry, and looked out the window to avoid his eye.
"Harvard," he repeated, the prestigious school rolling out on his tongue, as his mouth went dry. "Jesus. I mean, well, wow, good for you."
"It's overrated," Gen continued to glance out the window. "College is overrated. I'm only still there because I'm made the sailing team and they're taking care of my tuition."
Jon sat silently, racking his brain for a response. Hell, he'd only gone to college for two years. Then again, he had a hockey career to pursue...
"I'm sorry, that must sound really pretentious to bitch about my scholarship and my school," Gen turned to him apologetically. "I forget that I should keep some thoughts to myself sometimes."
"Don't be. I'll just be honest and say that I thought college was overrated, too. I stayed for two years."
"You don't look like a college dropout," she teased.
"If you dropped out of college, how do you think you'd look?"
"I'd probably wear sweats all the time."
Jon joined in on Gen's laughter at this thought, until she spoke again.
"So then, what do you do for a living?"
"You ever watch a Blackhawks game?"
"A what?"
"Okay, guess not," Jon chuckled. "The Chicago Blackhawks are a professional hockey team. I play for them."
Silence. And then–
"Wait, for real?"
"I'm actually the captain," he added nervously and looked up towards the front of the car, meeting the cabbie's eyes in the rearview mirror. The driver burst out laughing, unable to help himself. He'd recognized his customer right when he pulled up to the curb of the terminal.
"Sweetheart, you're sharing a cab with the number one athlete in Chicago," he called back to her, and Gen's jaw dropped. "He didn't stop to sign an autograph or nothing?"
"No!"
"I did, actually, when you were getting your stuff at baggage claim," Jon admitted. "Just a couple of kids."
"Wow, um, okay." Gen nodded, still shocked but regaining composure. "Good for you, Jon."
"So why is college overrated to you?" He was relieved at how cool she took his profession. Normally with women, that wasn't the case.
"It's just the structure of it, I suppose. I have the utmost respect for higher learning institutions and academia, but I've never felt that I couldn't learn just as much about the world and life overall if I didn't have a degree. I'm learning wonderful things, sure, and they'll be useful for whatever profession I ultimately choose, but..."
Gen trailed off for a moment, running a hand through her reddish locks, now undone from the bun she'd previously worn. Jon looked at her, feeling himself absorb this infinite moment. She glanced at him briefly, and he smiled back, urging her to go on.
"Basically, I wonder if spending four years of my life cooped up in lecture halls and libraries keeps me from experiencing everything life has to offer. Which sounds dumb, I know, because an education will help me gain more enriched experiences, and I'm only nineteen and I have an entire life ahead of me, but, God, I dunno."
"Sounds to me like you're waiting for your life to start."
"Does that sound ungrateful and snide and totally ridiculous?"
"Not at all," said Jon, fighting the urge to take her hand into his own.
"But I've only just spent half an hour with you, and I don't know if I've met anyone more alive than you."
And you make me feel like I've never lived until now, he couldn't help but think.
There was a reason he didn't ask Gen for her number. As he waved back to her from the cab as it pulled out of her driveway, His heart was pounding, ringing in his ears and feeling heavier than he ever imagined it could as the car sped down Lakeshore Drive.
Jonathan Toews wanted to drown happily in Genevieve Whitby's ocean. He wanted to surround himself with all things Gen, all the time, and just hold her close to him whenever possible. But how could he do that when she spent only brief snippets of her time in Chicago? When she would rather spend her time in Minnesota, Massachusetts, New York, Alberta?
He wanted to know her for more than just a thirty minute cab ride, but not for less than a lifetime. Fear struck him with this notion as she had continued to talk, not noticing the profound effect she had upon him. Jon might as well have been melting into the badly stained backseat carpet and sweat-laden seat.
He shouldn't see her again. He wouldn't see her again.
But fate had another idea.
He now pressed the doorbell next to the red door of Gen's father's house, shaking as he did so.
A few moments later, the door swung open to reveal a graying man not much taller than he, inspecting him with round, bronze-framed glasses. The familiar honey-colored irises widened in Chicagoan recognition.
"Hello there," the man greeted him in a British accent that took him aback. "Did I win season tickets, or are you lost?"
"Neither, unfortunately, sir," Jon grinned at his humor, and then fell back into stoicism at the realization of where he was and who he was speaking to. "I was actually looking for Gen. Are you her father?"
"That, I would be– Oliver Whitby" Professor Whitby nodded, widening the door and ushering him in. "Come on inside. Gen just ran out about ten minutes ago to grab some buttermilk."
Thanking him and introducing himself properly, Jon took off his shoes and his eyes traveled around the vicinity, taking it in. The living room was an absolutely peculiar sight. Built-in bookshelves lined one wall, but aside from a few scattered textbooks here and there, the entirety of them contained jars of what Jon could only imagine a geology professor found fascinating. But other than the crowded wall, the room looked normal otherwise, with a couch, coffee table, and lived-in looking armchair and nearby reading lamp.
"Come on into the kitchen, we were just getting breakfast started," the professor gestured to the next area of the house. "I have a fresh pot of coffee for myself, and Gen usually has earl grey– do you have a preference of beverage?"
"Coffee sounds great," Jon responded, recalling how he cursed to himself earlier that morning for accidentally drinking decaf. He hadn't bothered to make another cup, however, as the cab company's voicemail awoke him easily. He now watched Gen's father move about the kitchen, pulling a few obviously home-crafted mugs out of the cupboard.
"Gen made these in elementary school," Professor Whitby turned up the bottoms of the brightly-glazed, slightly malformed mugs to show where his daughter had shakily etched her full name into the clay, "Genevieve" being so long that it broke up into three lines on the small, round surface. "She always complains about how awful her artistic ability was back then, but she managed to shape the rims so well that it's hard to drink from any other mug in this kitchen."
"Dad, are you embarrassing me?" A voice suddenly wafted into the kitchen from the front entrance and Jon laughed at the professor's remarks. "I hear you talking about those mugs to whoever..."
Footsteps crossed the floor of the house, accompanied by a rustle of a plastic bag, causing Jon to freeze until Gen finally came into view. The grin that had been stretched across her mouth now retracted into an "O" as her eyes met his.
She's creeped out. Beyond creeped out, Jon panicked in his mind.
Miraculously, though, Gen's shocked visage quickly returned to a smile. And she looked stunning, too, in a pair of emerald shorts and a chambray blouse. Her bangs were pinned back, but the rest of her hair fell loosely onto her shoulders. Her eyes were bright and inviting.
"Hi Jon, it's a surprise to see you again," she said, handing her father a carton of buttermilk for pancakes. "What are you doing here?"
"The cab company called me," he held up the planner with a sweaty hand. "Is this yours?"
"Yes!" Gen exclaimed gratefully as he handed the book to her. "I thought I'd left it at the airport. It must have fallen out of my bag when I was getting out of the taxi. Thank you so much."
"I'm glad I caught you before you left."
"Me too."
She met his eyes once more. With the look Gen gave him, Jon felt like she had wanted to see him again, too– at least he hoped she did.
"Have you eaten yet?" Gen asked, as her father handed them their mugs of tea and coffee. "Dad usually makes so many pancakes that he'll end up getting some of his students to come over. So we could use your help."
"Yes, please do, Jonathan, save me from my ever-expanding waistline and senior theses discussions outside of office hours," Professor Whitby piped in as he started up the pancake griddle. "And you shouldn't drink coffee on an empty stomach."
"No, that would be bad– the coffee, I mean," Jon clarified quickly and Gen smiled at him invitingly. "Yes, breakfast sounds great."
"I'll set another place at the table," Gen winked, moving past him towards the breakfast nook at the bay window. She placed a hand on his arm as she did so, and her touch, despite being so innocent and slight, made Jon's mouth go dry.
Is she flirting with me? She's not– that's not flirting. No. Probably not. Can't be. I hope so.
Breakfast ensued without a hitch. Though, Gen did blush slightly when the professor served her a Mickey Mouse shaped pancake like he'd always done since she was three. To ease her embarrassment, Jon asked her father if he could make one for him as well.
"My mom always says she's making us hockey puck pancakes," Jon said between mouthfuls of blueberry pancakes. "When my brother and I were younger, we thought there was a difference."
"That's something my dad would totally try and get away with," Gen murmured as the professor busied himself again at the griddle.
"Ah, yes. Remember that futbol I made you before we went to the Chicago Fire match?" Her father agreed, Gen's low voice clearly not besting his ears. He placed the final stack of pancakes at the table between the fruit and jug of orange juice. "Us parents have no shame, I'm afraid."
Gen and Jon laughed and more food continued to pass around the table.
"So when is your flight?" Jon finally asked.
"I haven't rebooked it, actually," shrugged Gen. "I think I'm going to stay in Chicago. I was only here for a few days, and it's nice to be back."
"Well darling, it's nice to have you here," her father smiled, and Gen patted his hand lovingly.
"I was supposed to head back to Boston in two weeks, anyhow, for training," Gen explained further, glancing back at Jon. "Going up to the lake would be nice, but my friends will survive without me until the fall. I wasn't too excited to go, anyways. Chicago seems like more fun."
"Chicago is a lot of fun as it gets warmer," Jon agreed. "Have you seen much of it?"
"Some, from growing up here. It seems like I spent most of my time at the UC campus, though," Gen grinned at her father knowingly before looking at Jon. "Are you leaving today?"
"I actually realized I have to take care of some business before I head back up," Jon replied without missing a beat. He was planning on missing Dave Bolland's engagement party that weekend, but it was now a good excuse to stay in town. If not, Gen Whitby was a good excuse to stay in town. "If you want, I can show you around the city while you're here."
Jon's eyes moved to Gen's hands, which clasped her mug. Elbows propped, his vision traveled in focus to her lips, which upturned and curved into a smile behind the rim of the mug. She sipped her tea delicately.
"That sounds wonderful," she replied.
At the same time that breakfast wound down and Jon offered to dry the dishes as Gen washed them at the sink, the first flight out of O'Hare to Winnipeg, Manitoba, started to board.
Mister Toe-ez, please report to Gate C5 to board your flight. Last call to Winnipeg. Mister J. Toe-ez...
Jon's suitcase remained in the trunk of his car for the remainder of the afternoon, soaking up the sun that shined over Hyde Park. It was only while he and Gen walked through the sand down South Shore beach swapping funny stories and getting to know each other more later that day, that he looked up at a plane flying in the sky, and remembered that he missed his flight.
7/28/13