Jocelyn #2
“Oh. Hey, Joss!” Nic says even though he can’t hear me respond in kind. “Sorry my wife is kicking your ass.”
I want to cry. I want to throw the phone. My eyes burn and my throat aches, but I manage a wobbly, “Me, too.”
“Oh, crap.” Ali softens. “I’m sorry, Joss. I— I can’t tell you what to do. I can’t heal your trauma or take away your fear.
I would if I could. You know I would.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“I want you to be happy, but you have to be willing to be happy. Years of therapy, and you’re just—you’re still not there yet.”
I sniffle, refusing to admit that I’m crying, that these tears exist at all. “I have to go.”
“Okay. I love you, sister.”
“Yeah.”
I end the call and open EverX.
Why not tonight?
11?
See you then.
Yayoi calls while I’m driving to Ashton’s apartment. She’s usually asleep by ten, so I paw at my Apple CarPlay to answer,
convinced something bad has happened.
Is she miscarrying? Is Geoff okay? Is she dying in a ditch somewhere?
“Hello? Hello? Are you okay?”
“Whoa,” Yayoi says. “Calm down. I’m fine.”
“Jesus.” I press a hand to my chest, willing my heart rate to slow. “Why are you calling me so late?”
“The baby thinks I should be vomiting at this time of night. You’re the only person I know who stays awake past ten. Talk
me out of my morning sickness.”
I laugh, the flood of adrenaline shifting to giddy relief. “Okay. How do I do that?”
“Wait. Are you in your car?”
“Yeah.” I stop at an intersection, tapping my fingers on the wheel.
“Where are you going this late?”
“To visit Grandma.” I exchange an awkward glance with the guy in the SUV next to me. “Where do you think I’m going?”
A silence follows. “You’re . . . meeting someone?”
“Yes, Yayoi. I’m meeting someone.”
“Meeting . . . Asher?”
My stomach drops. “What? Why would you ask that?”
“Oh.” Something rustles in the background. “No reason. Never mind.”
Nuh-uhh. No way was that a coincidence. Super sus. “Do—do you know?”
“Know what?” Her voice is too chipper.
The distraction keeps my foot off the gas, and someone behind honks. “Shit.” I speed through the intersection. “Did Asher
tell you what happened?”
“He—um—no. He didn’t tell me. He asked Geoff for advice.”
“Geoff knows?” I rub my forehead. “He’s going to hate me.”
“No! No. He doesn’t hate you.” Yayoi’s tone is sincere, but I can’t believe her. Geoff is Asher’s bro all the way. If Asher pulls away from me, Geoff will side with him, and Yayoi will pick her husband, as she should.
Everything’s falling apart around me. All the staples in my life, ripped out and warped.
“Right.” The burning in my throat is back. “So, what was Geoff’s sage guidance?”
Yayoi’s sigh crackles in my car’s speakers. “He told him to move on. That’s all.”
I turn onto the street leading to Ashton’s condo. “Good advice. Is that why he’s got a date with some other woman tomorrow?”
Yayoi remains quiet for a moment. “Aren’t you heading to a date with some other man?”
I remain quiet because what can I say? I’m the monster who drove Asher away, the idiot who’s destroying our entire group.
Her soft voice breaks my silence. “Do you want to talk about it? What happened?”
“I don’t know.” I park on the street. “We were having a good time, and then some girl came on to him, and I got jealous. I
won’t even pretend I wasn’t jealous. And then he—he said some things. And then we were kissing. And then—”
Memories surge through me. The salty, woodsy taste of his skin. The graze of his night stubble against my thigh. The fire
in his touch. The diamond-hard connection between us, linking my heart to his.
Beyond words. Beyond thought. Just . . . him.
“And then?” Yayoi prompts.
I shake myself. “And then a lot of stuff happened, and he told me he was in love with me, and I panicked.”
Her tone sharpens. “He said that?”
“Yeah,” I say, but it’s more a breath of air than an actual word.
“Whoa. That’s heavy.”
“I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t really say anything, and he just shut down.”
She’s silent a few moments, but then, “I mean . . . I did tell you he’s not fling material.”
“And that I’d destroy him.” My tone has grown bitter, but I can’t change it. I am bitter. Did I destroy him? I’m a monster.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Joss. You know that. He’s just more sentimental than you. That stuff means a lot more to him.”
“Physical stuff?” I’m trying hard not to hear slut in what she’s saying—I know she doesn’t think that—but the self-consciousness is rising.
“Yeah.” She laughs. “He’s more like a girl that way, isn’t he? And you’re more like a guy.”
I guess, in this world, being manly is better than being slutty. Though . . . men are sort of sluts, so it’s kind of the same
thing.
“I don’t subscribe to gender norms,” I say, injecting a false haughtiness into my voice.
We take a moment to laugh at the silly joke, or maybe at my idiocy, and settle into a peaceful quiet.
“Are you going to be okay?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Do you . . . Do you think I put up a front?”
She hums. “I think you’re guarded. It’s hard to get to know you. But once you let someone in, you’re very you. There’s no front, and no apology.”
So there’s some truth to what Cassie said. People can see my walls. Maybe they aren’t protecting me at all. Maybe they’re
trapping me.
She yawns. “I think the nausea has passed. I’m going to let you go, okay?”
“All right. Good night.”
“Be safe tonight, okay?”
“I always am.”
I exit my car, instantly awash in the scent of ocean. The waves on the other side of the building echo around me. I enter
the lobby and give my name to the doorman like last time, studying the coastal-modern decor. When he allows me to board the
elevator, I press the button for Ashton’s floor.
An overwhelming thrash of wrongness whips across my spine.
I ignore it. Suppress it. Chalk it up to nerves.
In the hallway outside the elevator, I’m wowed again by the understated wealth. Glitzy seafoam accents play up the ocean theme.
The plush carpet sinks beneath my feet as I walk. Soft lighting provides a calm ambiance. I knock on his door, and he answers
after only a few moments. His brown hair is windswept, and he wears his black Henley like he’s doing it a favor. His smile
reveals cute dimples. This guy’s looks are far too wholesome for a cheap fuck.
Beyond that, though, something else becomes starkly transparent.
He doesn’t look like Asher.
He’s missing the glimmer. The light. The indescribable something that makes Asher excruciatingly lovable. Exhaustingly irresistible.
“Welcome back,” he says.
“Hello.” I lift an eyebrow. “Ashton.”
He chuckles and presses his back against the open door. “Good memory.”
I take his silent invitation and enter his space. Soft alternative music plays from overhead speakers. The place is open-concept.
Minimalist. Masculine. He has those kitchen cabinets with no handles and dim lighting to provide atmosphere.
The dude has money. A lot of it.
Once I reach the part of the space I’d consider the living room, I turn toward him. “What kind of doctor are you?”
“Interventional radiologist.” He shuts the door.
“Oooh.” I fan myself and perch on the back of the low sofa. “So fancy.”
He chuckles as he approaches, slow and purposeful. “What about you?”
I shoot him a coy smile. “Take a guess.”
“Hmm.” His head cocks. “Dermatology?”
“Ha! No. I prefer my patients asleep.”
“Ah. Anesthesia.” He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to lift my chin to look him in the eye. His hands travel
to the sofa back on either side of my hips. He doesn’t touch me, but the warmth from his body radiates, speeding my heart.
My skin beneath this thin, slinky dress prickles with discomfort.
I suppress the shudder.
His thumbs brush over my hips. A little crease forms between his brows. “Why are you here tonight?”
A laugh bursts from me. “What do you mean? Isn’t it obvious?”
His eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Not really. You seem . . . conflicted.”
“I’m not.” The vehemence in my voice is excessive, and he backs away.
“Listen, if you’re not—”
My hands grab for him and twist into his shirt, yanking him back. Our mouths meet in the middle, and I snake an arm around
him. Our bodies converge, hard pressed to soft. His grip goes to my waist, and he lifts me to the sofa back.
Ignoring the furious and outraged voice in my head, I wrap my legs around him to deepen the kiss. He tastes like whiskey and wintergreen, and his cologne enters my lungs, potent enough to make me forget for three long seconds that I don’t want this.
But I don’t.
I don’t want this.
Of all the times I’ve done this, all the instances I’ve worried what other people think, this is the first time I actually
feel as if I’m doing something wrong. Most of me—all of me—is committed elsewhere. And this . . . This feels like cheating.
My heart revolts. It hugs a bomb to itself, lets it explode and pumps the shrapnel through my veins just for torture. I’ve
made no promises to anyone, but this kiss is still a betrayal, and not just of this nascent, ineradicable emotion burning
through my system for my best friend.
I’m betraying myself. Poisoning myself. I have more self-respect than this, and my body is screaming that I deserve the deep
connection I experienced when Asher held me in his arms. I jerk back, releasing Ashton like he shocked me. Because he did shock me. I am shocked.
Strangely, he exhibits no surprise. Instead, he nods. “Kind of thought that would happen.”
No amount of breath is enough to feed the panicked pounding of my heart, and I fear no quantity of soap will clean the ick
from my skin.
Not that there’s anything wrong with him. Or wrong with casual sex. Something has changed inside me. I’m the problem.
“Why?” I ask because I can think of nothing else to say.
“You’re a beautiful woman.” He puts some space between us. “You could have anyone, but you sought me out because I look like
someone specific. You’ve clearly got some hang-ups.”
“Maybe I have a type, and you fit it.”