Chapter 3
My first week at the clinic goes okay. My head is spinning with all the new stuff I’ve learned about IV catheter placement and fluid rates and the thirteen different ways a cat can let you know it’s displeased when you try to take its temperature.
But Friday evening, instead of collapsing, I’m vibrating with nervous energy because all week I’ve been working up my courage to see Jared again on the excuse of returning the clothes he loaned me.
I might have done a wee bit of spying, and I know that Jared came home around seven-thirty p.m. and hasn’t left his apartment since.
Should I just go to his door and knock? Would that be weird? I don’t want to be accused of being a stalker.
And then there’s the fact that I haven’t been able to stop replaying Halloween night with Jared all week.
How he kissed me so intently, with such abandon and passion.
The way his hands knew exactly where to grip, how hard to hold, when to be gentle, and when not to be.
How crazy is it that the guy with the chocolate-cake voice who talked to me in the dark is also someone who can light up my body like that?
I can’t help hoping that if Jared is serious about being my friend, I can hopefully nudge us toward a friends-with-benefits situation.
I mean, we’ve already proven we’ve got incredible sexual chemistry.
Surely that would get him to overlook my face?
I mean, I could offer that we only have sex in the dark if he prefers.
But then a horrible scenario plays out in my head, one where Jared agrees to mess around, but then he can’t get it up, and we have to sit there in the world’s most awkward silence while his dick stages a conscientious objection to my face.
Since my accident, my brain has become increasingly good at its ability to come up with nightmares while I’m still awake.
Fuck, something else to talk with Annie about at our next appointment.
My musing is interrupted by a knock at my door.
My heart does this weird stuttering thing. I check through the peephole and nearly swallow my tongue when I see who it is.
Jared.
He’s here. He’s come to see me. That’s got to be a good thing, right?
Unless he’s reconsidered and has come to tell me he actually doesn’t think being friends is a good idea.
Or maybe he’s come to demand back his T-shirt and sweatpants because a week is too long for what was clearly meant to be a one-night lending situation and he’s been quietly seething about it the entire week.
I stop my catastrophizing by opening the door.
Jared is standing there in a worn band T-shirt that clings to him in ways that should be illegal, holding a plate covered in cling film. His hair is slightly messy, like he’s been running his hands through it, and there’s a smudge of what looks like chocolate on his jaw. I want to lick it off.
My ability to keep things with Jared in the friendship zone is already going spectacularly badly.
“Um…hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“I thought given you’re new to the building, I should do the neighborly thing and bake you something to say welcome,” he says, holding out the plate.
“You bake?”
“Yes, I bake. Do you like brownies?”
“What kind of question is that? If you have someone who doesn’t like brownies in your life, you need to cut them off now. Because it’s very likely they’re possessed by the devil.”
He laughs as I take the plate from him.
“Thanks so much. These look delicious.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You want to come in for a bit?” I ask hopefully.
My heart skips as Jared smiles warmly.
“Sure. I’d love to come in and meet the famous Patches.”
I open the door to let him inside, putting the brownies on my kitchen counter, and then lead him through into my half-unpacked disaster of a living room, where Patches is doing her best impression of a throw pillow on the couch.
“Patches, this is Jared,” I tell her. “He saved my life once and makes excellent brownies, so be nice. Jared, this is Patches, destroyer of socks, hoarder of hair ties, and the reason I can’t have nice things.”
Patches opens one eye, judges Jared worthy of her attention, and immediately rolls onto her back, presenting her stomach to him.
“She’s friendly,” Jared says.
“She’s a total hussy, just like her owner,” I reply.
Jared makes a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a strangled cough.
Shit. Did that sound flirty? I’m not supposed to be flirting with him.
Luckily, Patches is purring like a motorboat and attracts Jared’s attention back to her. He scratches her belly.
Okay, now I’m officially jealous of my cat.
I stand there awkwardly as he continues to pet Patches. What should I say now? I used to be so good at this kind of thing, at charming people into wanting to spend time with me. But my social muscles have atrophied.
“So, is this part of your friendship auditioning process? Sucking up to my cat?” I finally ask.
“Totally,” he replies.
His reply makes me brave enough to push for more. “As more of your friendship auditioning process, do you want to hang out sometime this weekend? Maybe you could show me some of Auckland?” I say the words in a rush, so they come out all blurred together.
But I already know Jared is gifted at deciphering my words when my elocution isn’t the best. We had three hours trapped in a tomo to prove that.
He fixes those gorgeous brown eyes on me.
“I’m working Sunday, and I’ve already got plans for tomorrow.”
“Oh, okay.”
Well, I guess that gives me the answer about whether this friendship thing is going to continue.
My throat goes tight and I have to swallow hard. I should have known better than to think the hot paramedic neighbor actually wants to spend time with me. The brownies are probably just him being polite, the conversational equivalent of holding a door open for someone you never want to see again.
I try not to let my disappointment show on my face.
Jared’s eyebrows draw together slightly. His hand stills on Patches’ fur, his attention shifting fully to me.
“Tomorrow, I’m just taking my niece Emmy to the aquarium if you want to join us?” Jared says.
The cold, heavy feeling in my chest evaporates so fast I get emotional whiplash.
Suddenly, I’m grinning like an idiot who just won the lottery. Except, rather than millions, the winning prize is spending time with Jared and a small human while looking at fish.
My standards for excitement have really shifted since the accident.
“You don’t think she’ll mind if I tag along?” I say.
“She definitely won’t mind. She’s only four. You’ll be another person to pay attention to her.”
“Great. I promise to be on my best behavior. Well, I’ll try not to make any inappropriate jokes about which fish would look most delicious with lemon butter.”
Jared releases his rumbling laugh, and for a few seconds, we just stand there, grinning at each other.
He runs a hand through his hair, looking adoringly bashful.
“Uh…if you haven’t had dinner yet, I’m just going to order pizza and watch some TV. You’re welcome to join me,” Jared says.
Now my smile is threatening to launch off my face and maybe take over the whole country. I try to wrestle it back.
“Well, I suppose I do owe you the pleasure of my company as payback for those delicious-looking brownies.”
“It’s probably fair payment,” Jared agrees.
I follow him down the hallway to his apartment. Once I’m inside, I try not to let my eyes linger on the door to his bedroom and replay the fun times I had last weekend behind that door.
Because we’re doing the friends thing. I can do that. Totally.
I plonk myself on the couch and see that his TV has been paused partway through an episode of something.
“So, what were you watching?”
He looks slightly sheepish. “I’m just rewatching some old episodes of Getting the Goons before the new season drops.” He names a New Zealand spoof crime show that has a cult following.
“You watch Getting the Goons?” I say skeptically.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Um, yeah, I think it’s really funny.”
I glance at the frozen screen.
“Is this the episode where Afu investigates the case of the missing sausage rolls from the dairy, and it turns out the culprit was the police station’s emotional support peacock?”
The sheepish look on Jared’s face disappears. “Yep, it’s that one,” he says with a smile.
“I love this episode.” I settle back into the cushions of his couch.
And so Jared and I hang out together binge-watching episodes of Getting the Goons, eating the pizza when it arrives, and debating whether the best Getting the Goons episode is the one where they investigate the mysterious disappearance of every last flat white from Wellington cafés, or the one where the sheep all start walking backward and the prime suspect is a hypnotist chicken.
Then, the moment comes when Jared and I both reach for the last slice of pizza.
Instead of pulling back politely like a normal person, I bend down and lick the entire length of it while maintaining eye contact with him.
Jared’s eyebrows shoot up.
A sinking feeling starts in my guts.
Oh fuck. I’ve been so relaxed and having such a good time with Jared that I’ve forgotten about my face.
I’ve spent most of my life being the gorgeous twink who could pull off bratty behavior because of what I looked like.
But I’m definitely not cute anymore.
And I’ve subsequently learned that without my looks, people are far less lenient about my tendency to act like a feral toddler raised by particularly sarcastic wolves.
I learned this the hard way the first time I went clubbing after my accident. I’d tried my usual move at a bar, sliding onto a stranger’s lap with a cheeky “Is this seat taken?” Instead of the laughs and interested hands I was used to, the guy had literally shoved me off.
The bartender had looked at me with pity, which was somehow worse than the rejection.
I swallow thickly at the memory now.
But before I can stammer out an apology over my pizza-licking feralness, I realize Jared is fighting a smile.