Chapter 10
JOSH
I grip the steering wheel, crushing the leather under my fingers as I turn into the parking lot.
If I don’t hold on to something solid, I might act stupid.
Today has been perfect. Too perfect. Every second of the time I spent with Lily has lodged itself in my nervous system, shorting out my ability to think about anything but her.
And now I’m about to say goodnight and walk away like my heart isn’t doing backflips whenever she laughs.
I’m not sure what’s worse: that she only wants to be friends, or that I agreed to it, knowing damn well friendship is the last thing on my mind when I look at her.
“Thanks for today,” she says as I finish parking. “Best hike and tacos I’ve had in ages.”
I kill the engine but don’t make a move to get out. “Thank you for showing me around and sharing your secret food truck.”
She playfully narrows her eyes at me. “I shared only because you prefer Polaroids to Instagram. No risk of it going viral and getting ruined.”
She unfastens her seatbelt, slinging her backpack over her shoulder as she hops out of my pickup.
I follow but let her stay a pace ahead, trailing behind her down the walkway.
“Well.” I stop at the path where I have to go left, and she has to keep walking. “See you tomorrow?”
Lily turns to me with her stern nurse face. Scary, but also, weirdly, a turn-on. “Where are you going?”
I frown, confused. “To my apartment?”
I point to my door with my thumbs, in case she forgot where I live.
“You still need to change your bandage.” She pouts in that way I’m becoming obsessed with. “Especially after spending all day on a dirt trail.”
Oh. Right.
“I should shower first,” I suggest, gesturing down at my smudged clothes.
Her face takes on this suffering expression, like the thought of me naked under a jet of water is troubling.
Or maybe I’m projecting what I want her to feel.
So I deflect. “Don’t want to ruin your work with my trail dust. Is it okay if I stop by your place later? ”
“Yeah, sure, I’m gonna shower too, but don’t take too long or I’m going to pass out.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I salute with my good arm. “Thirty minutes?”
“Perfect.” She nods and turns.
Only when she disappears past the bend in her stairway, I move.
I let myself into my apartment, toss my keys onto the counter, and stand in the middle of my semi-empty living room.
I strip off my sweaty T-shirt and head straight for the shower.
For a few seconds, I stand under the spray and let the scalding water work its magic, pounding the tension out of my neck and back.
Normally I’d be nothing but satisfied. I’ve had an amazing time today hiking, laughing, eating tacos as the sun set over the ocean with a beautiful woman.
It was perfect and so damn miserable. No way am I going to be okay being only Lily’s friend.
The wild thought of quitting my job crosses my mind. Me being a lieutenant at the same station where her husband served is a constant reminder of why she can’t let herself get close to me.
But being a firefighter has always been my dream. I’ve waited so long for the promotion to lieutenant and the challenge of doing my job in California, at one of the most dangerous stations in the country. And I finally got it. But that danger is also why Lily wants nothing romantic with me.
I turn the jet harder, hoping it’ll clear my head and dial down the static running through me. I scrub off the dust and sweat, but it doesn’t help wash the memory of Lily’s laugh, the shape of her mouth around a straw, or how she felt pressed against my side as we took that selfie.
With my eyes closed, all of it is branded behind my eyelids in 4K, Dolby surround sound, “please torture yourself some more, Josh” special edition.
I tell myself to think about something else, but nothing works. It’s all Lily, with no commercial breaks.
I give up fighting it and let myself sink into the heat and the want, chasing relief that I know won’t last past the steam fading from the mirror. I imagine her here with me. The fantasy is so vivid I can almost feel her breath against my neck, hear her whisper my name.
I groan in response, letting out all my frustration.
The water pounds over me as I lean against the tiles, breathless and spent, wishing the heat could burn away everything I’m feeling.
Shame creeps in. I’m fantasizing about a woman who wants to be only my friend, who’s been through hell and is rebuilding her life.
I should walk away. I’m her worst nightmare.
And instead, I’m about to double-dip in disaster.
I shut off the water and towel off. I’m still so keyed up I could run another ten miles. Or punch a wall. Or, more realistically, knock on Lily’s door and beg her to let me kiss her once, just to get it out of my system.
I avoid my gaze in the mirror. I don’t want to know what a guy who wants what he shouldn’t looks like.
In my bedroom, I throw on a pair of gray sweatpants and a clean T-shirt, then run a hand through my damp hair, not bothering to style it.
I’ve been twenty-five minutes already. I grab my phone and head out, ready for a fresh round of the most bittersweet suffering.
Lily answers on the first knock. She comes to her door in black leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, the hem hitting her mid-thigh.
Her hair is loose on her shoulders, honey-blonde waves framing her face.
I’ve never seen it down before. It’s longer than I thought, softer, curling at the tips.
And it’s not helping my celibate cause one bit.
“Hey,” she greets me, a little breathless, and steps aside to let me in.
“Err… hey.” Someone lodged sandpaper down my throat.
Her living room is dim except for a side lamp and the TV paused on the start of a movie.
“Sit,” she instructs, pointing to the couch.
I sink into the cushions, doing my best to blank out the pictures of her past life, focusing instead on a stack of medical journals.
Lily sits beside me, her first aid kit already on the coffee table, and disinfects her hands with gel from a small bottle.
“Arm,” she orders, professional mode engaged.
I comply, watching her. Not in a creepy, leering way—at least, I hope not. But it’s impossible not to take in the fine bones of her wrist, how her hair falls across her cheek as she focuses. The smell of her shampoo stronger than it was in the car this morning. And then she touches me.
The proximity is heady enough to make me lightheaded.
“It’s healing well,” she comments, examining the stitches. “No signs of infection.”
“Thanks to my excellent nurse.” My voice comes out raspy.
She looks up, catching my gaze. An unspoken emotion dances behind her eyes, but before I can name it, she blinks and returns to her work. “Hold still.”
I’m hyperaware of how close she is, how if I leaned forward, our faces would be inches apart. I catalog the tiny freckle near her left temple, the way her teeth press into her lower lip as she concentrates.
“Done,” she says five minutes later, securing the fresh bandage with tape. Lily sits back, admiring her handiwork. “Much better.”
“Thanks,” I say, flexing my arm. “I should let you enjoy a bit of TV and—”
“What are you going to do?” she interrupts.
I shrug. “Same. Pass out on the couch in front of the TV.”
She makes a weird face, one eyebrow arching up. “I’ve seen your living room. You don’t have a TV.”
Busted. “Ah, right. I keep forgetting that I’m supposed to go get a new one.”
She hesitates, fidgeting with the medical supplies as she puts everything back into the white plastic case. “Do you want to watch something with me?”
My heart wants to break free through my ribs and jump into her lap. “Sure.” I try not to sound desperate.
She sets aside the kit and grabs the remote.
We settle in, Lily on one end of the couch and me on the other, a respectful distance between us.
She presses play on the movie she was about to watch, but I don’t follow the plot much, just note it’s about a group of friends in New York.
The dialog blurs into the background, details slipping past while Lily absentmindedly twists a strand of hair as she gets absorbed in the story.
I catalog what makes her laugh. What makes her tense.
Eventually, my eyelids grow heavy, the combination of physical exertion, good food, and a comfortable couch pulling me toward sleep. I fight it, not wanting to cut short my time with Lily…
* * *
I don’t remember falling asleep. The last thing I recall is her chuckling at something on screen, and me thinking how I could do this every night and never get bored. Watch TV with Lily at the end of a long day.
I blink awake to morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains, disoriented, not recognizing my surroundings.
Then I register the weight on my chest. Lily is pressed against me, her head tucked under my chin, one hand curled in the fabric of my shirt.
My right arm is pinned between us, but I wouldn’t move it for the world.
We’ve shifted during the night. I’m sprawled on my back across her couch, and she’s draped over me. Her left leg is wedged between mine.
I lie wide awake, feeling every breath she takes against my neck as she sleeps.
Savoring the weight of her body on me before reality sets in.
How compromising the position is. How parts of me—specifically one part—are very intent on showing her just how little I want to be her friend.
I focus my mental energy on unsexy things—tax forms, inventory logs, that time I got food poisoning from gas station sushi.
Unlike in the shower yesterday, it has to work now.
But not even picturing the mildew in my old basement helps. Not when Lily makes a contented sound in her sleep and nuzzles closer.
I need to move before she wakes up and finds me in this state. I shift sideways so she’s not on top of me, sliding her onto the couch cushion. The movement jostles her enough that her eyes flutter open.
Gosh, she’s beautiful in the morning. Hair tousled, cheeks flushed with sleep, hazel eyes unfocused. She blinks up at me, confused.
“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice casual despite my racing heart. “Sorry, I passed out on your couch. That hike yesterday must’ve exhausted me more than I thought.”
“Crap. Sorry.” She scrambles off me like she’s been burned, her face flushing a deep red.
I try for humor. “It’s your fault. You’re very comfortable.”
“It’s okay,” she says, but she looks agitated, smoothing down her hair and tugging at her sweatshirt. “I need the bathroom,” she blurts, then hops off the couch and disappears down the hall, slamming the door behind her.
I stare at the spot where she’d been, already missing her warmth, and tell myself for the thousandth time that a platonic friendship is better than giving her up.
I push myself upright and smooth my hair down to compose myself before she returns.
My phone is on the end table where I left it.
I check the time—7.38 a.m. Should I leave before she comes back?
Spare us both the awkward morning-after conversation when we didn’t even have a proper night-before anything.
But I’m not a coward; I don’t run away. So I wait, wondering what I could do to let her know it’s not a big deal.
I glance around the living room, awash in the fresh morning light. It feels different somehow, more intimate now that I’ve spent the night, even if it was an accident. This couch knows the feel of our bodies together. These walls have witnessed us vulnerable in sleep.
I should regret it, should apologize, but all I can think is: I want more mornings like this.
I can’t tell her that. But I can make her breakfast as any non-awkward friend would. I’ll smile and make jokes. I’ll be her friendly neighbor until she’s ready for something more.
Or until I accept that she never will be.