Chapter 33
I’d like to say I bury myself in work that next week, but that would do a disservice to every other day I’ve tended to a wound, or stitched up a knee, or removed a mustard jar from a butt.
Hey, it’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.
Anyway, work saves me.
I’ve always buried myself in it, but I like to think that’s the only way to do the job.
To give all of myself to it. I’m glad I have a job that demands everything of me.
Mercy gets not only one hundred percent of my focus, but one hundred and ten percent.
Maybe this is the real lucky-bastard life—to have a job I love so much that I don’t even have time to think about the woman I miss.
At the end of each work day, I’m relieved I’ve logged ten or twelve hours without thinking about her.
The trouble is my shift ends every evening.
That’s when the missing begins in earnest, pain like a phantom limb, a persistent reminder of what I don’t have anymore.
One night after work, Wyatt texts me to meet up with him and Nick, telling me it’s softball season and I need to get my ass to Central Park.
I go, and I’m both grateful and really fucking depressed that Josie’s not playing this year. Nick hits a home run; that’s par for the course for him. I manage a small degree of satisfaction when I knock in two runners during my turn at bat.
That feeling fades, though, when I leave, head downtown, and check my phone. There’s no note from Josie. I sigh heavily as I flop down on the couch at Max’s home, absently fiddling with the screen. I could write to her. I could text her. I should.
But it’s too fucking hard. I didn’t even see her when I stopped by the apartment a few days ago to grab the rest of my things. I made sure to go when I knew she’d be at work.
When Max comes home with Chinese takeout and beer, I switch off the Josie portion of my brain and turn on the hunger lobe.
That does the trick, and I do find a small degree of pleasure in knowing I’m returning to old habits.
I haven’t completely lost my dependable talent for compartmentalization.
It’s like a renaissance of sorts, as I’m remade back into the guy who isn’t head over heels.
Yup. I know this dude. I can be this dude. As I put my feet on Max’s coffee table, I stretch my arms, my old self coming back.
He kicks off my foot. “Dude, this isn’t a frat house.”
“Josie let me do it,” I grumble.
He arches an eyebrow. “Josie doesn’t make the rules here.” He grabs the clicker and flicks on the TV, scrolling to HBO. “You seen the newest Ballers episode? This show kills it.”
I groan and slide my hand over my face.
“What? You don’t like the Rock?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Don’t tell me it reminds you of Josie.”
Busted.
“Maybe,” I mutter.
“You should text her. See her. You’re supposed to be friends with her. Be fucking friends with her.”
“She hasn’t texted me, though, except about keys and the apartment.”
He smacks the back of my head. “What are you? Twelve?” He grabs my phone from the table and shoves it at me. “Call her. Have a coffee or whatever you do with her that doesn’t involve keys or the apartment or household shit.” He sets his laser-beam eyes to high. “Or I’ll do it for you.”
That does the trick. I send her a note, asking her if she wants to have breakfast tomorrow. She says she’ll be leaving early for work, but suggests dinner or drinks in the evening.
We settle on drinks. And it’s weird—Josie and I were never the friends who went out to get drinks. We sampled food. We saw movies. We wandered in and out of bookstores. We walked and talked and tried her bakery goods.
I don’t want to get a brew with her.
But I do it anyway, meeting her the next day at Speakeasy in Midtown. She’s already at the bar when I walk in. Perched on a stool, her legs are crossed, and she wears pink sandals, a purple skirt with a candy pattern on it, and a white tank top.
My skin heats up, and I have to reel in all my dirty thoughts.
Mainly the ones that remind me exactly what she looks like underneath those clothes.
How she feels. How she tastes. How she moves, and moans, and groans, and for fuck’s sake, brain, have a little mercy on a man.
Some things are not fair, like planting those alluring images in my head right now.
I walk over to her, and it’s awkward for a moment. Then she hops off the stool and throws her arms around me. “Hey you.”
“Hey you,” I echo and pump a virtual fist. We can do this.
She holds up a hand like a stop sign. “Before we order, I have this for you.” She reaches into her bag and grabs a treat.
Old times. Yes. We are back to the way we were. “Can’t wait.”
“It’s a mini cinnamon bun. It’s like a cinnamon bun met a cookie.”
“And they had babies.”
She laughs. “They totally did. They got it on in the oven and made delicious cinnamony, sugary children. Try it.”
“Bringing food into a bar. You scofflaw.”
She brings her finger to her lips. “Shhh.”
She hands the small treat to me, and it’s one of the sweetest things I’ve ever tasted. “Your mini bun is amazing,” I say, and I’m rewarded with her smile. “And yes, I do know that sounded dirty.”
“It did, and I’m glad you said it, and glad you like it.” She leans closer, a playful look in her eyes. “Confession: I’ve always had a thing for cinnamon.”
This is news to me, and I’m digging that she’s sharing pieces of herself, just the same as before. “That so? Tell me more.”
She shrugs lightly. “It makes me feel as if I can do anything.”
“So it’s like a good drug?”
“Exactly.” She pats my knee like she used to do. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”
“Yeah, me, too.” Because some Josie is better than no Josie. “Hey, have you ever made a peanut butter brownie?”
“Like with peanut butter in a chocolate brownie?”
I tap my nose. “Yes.”
“I have, but not recently.”
“Put that on your afternoon special. That would be amazing.”
She mimes writing a note, and the bartender swings by to take our orders. When he leaves, we chat, like two old friends catching up. “How’s everything? How’s the place?”
“Actually,” she begins, taking her time. “I already moved out. After you picked up your things.”
“Whoa. That was fast. You don’t let the body get cold.”
“It just made sense.”
“Did you get a new place already? I’m jealous that your real estate mojo is that good.”
She shakes her head. “I moved some of the furniture to my parents’ storage unit. Well, Wyatt moved it, since he has a truck,” she says, and I feel like an ass that her brother helped her rather than me.
“Sorry I wasn’t there to lend a hand.”
A small smile appears on her face. “It’s no big deal. It was easy enough. And now I’m staying with Lily till I figure things out. Since she kicked out Rob, she’s got room for me.”
Lily and Josie. Two lovely single ladies living together. My radar goes off. “Are you dating again?”
She gives me a look that can only be read as you ass. “Seriously?”
I swallow, trying to play it cool. “Aren’t we allowed to talk about that? We did before.”
She nods.
“So, that’s a yes? You’re dating?” Jealousy flares in me like wildfire, a hot, raging beast.
She narrows her eyes. “I was acknowledging we used to talk about dating,” she says, clearly affronted by my questions. “What about you? Are you dating?”
I huff, then scoff for good measure. “No. Hell no.”
“Then why would I be?” she asks, holding her hands out wide in a question.
“You wanted to before,” I point out.
“Things changed.” She bites out each word.
Yeah, “things” as in everything.
She takes a deep breath as if she’s calming herself down. “Okay, let’s start over.” She smiles cheerily at me. “How’s work?”
We talk about work, and only work, like everything else is off the table. Maybe it should be. When it’s time to leave, we walk out together and stand awkwardly on the sidewalk, rocking on our heels.
“Chase?”
My heart beats faster from the way she says my name. “Yeah?” I ask like that one word contains all the hope in my universe.
She smiles wistfully. “I miss you.”
The hope dissipates. I wanted more than missing. But I answer her truthfully. “I miss you, too.”
“We should do this again,” she says.
“Absolutely.”
Because we’re friends and this is what we wanted. This is what we planned for.
She drops a quick kiss to my cheek before she walks away.
I’m not sure if I like our new normal any more than I liked being without her.