Chapter 6
Chapter Six
He picks up almost instantly.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
He’s concerned. His voice is deep and husky, resonating to my core.
“Could be better.”
Physically I’m fine. Mentally? Not so sure.
Joshua Harrison calling me on a random Tuesday night is… nerve-wracking. He’s just another man I met at a bar. That’s the narrative I’m sticking to.
Unfortunately, his chiseled, sweaty abs pop up on my TV every time I turn it on.
“Do tell then, what happened?” he asks again, this time softly.
“What happened is that your umbrella did not work.”
Without thinking, I forward the same photo I sent Emma.
I hear him groan—though not like he feels bad about it—more like he’s savoring something.
“Well damn…” he says, his voice dipping into that cheeky register that instantly puts me on edge. “I’m glad it didn’t.”
I roll my eyes. Idiot.
The nerves are quick to vanish, replaced by irritation.
“There was nothing about that whole thing that was funny. My clothes were soaked and dirty, I smelled like the Thames, and I had to ride the cab home like that for a whole thirty minutes. So yeah, after being splashed with crap water the last thing I need is for you––”
“Wow, slow down, love,” he cuts in. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh really, Harrison? Then what is it?” I ask, challenging.
“The picture,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “I got to say, I was surprised that you sent it. Didn’t peg you for that kind of lass. Red looks sexy on you, though.”
I glance back at the picture—yep, there it is.
My blouse is completely see-through, my bright red bra basically waving hello. Any other time, I’d be mortified. Right now, I’m too exhausted for that.
“I’m not that kind of lass.” I huff. “At this point, who cares? Now we’re even.”
“We’re even?” he repeats, curious.
“I know this might come as a shock to you, but you weren’t really in a cop show. You were in a thirst trap,” I deadpan, as I take a bite of my dinner.
“What can I say? Most of my fans live for those kinds of scenes.” I hear the cockiness in this voice.
“That’s creepy.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily call you creepy—a bit stalk-ish, that’s all.”
“We’ve already established this. I’m not a fan.” I pause, suddenly very self-conscious. “You wish you had fans like me.”
“Alright love, whatever helps you sleep at night,” he says teasingly.
“No, really. If you want a fan, my best friend Emma is your girl.”
He chuckles, and I get mildly irritated.
I pride myself on treating people as people, not celebrities.
“I’m thinking Emma might be a bit of an imaginary friend.”
“Really?” A hum comes through. “For the sake of your privacy and my ears, I won’t add her to the call, though I’m sure she would absolutely love to.”
“Come over, we’ll call her from your phone,” he says nonchalantly.
“If I could raise only one eyebrow, I would be doing it right now. I can’t, so just imagine it.” I’m getting used to his confidence.
“Oh, come on, love, why not?” he whines like a child wanting candy.
“I just finished dinner. I’m already in my comfy pajamas. I have work in the morning, and I’m too lazy to catch another cab. Are those enough reasons?” I keep counting them with my fingers as I go on.
“That means you’re all set for a sleepover,” he says. I’d bet good money that he’s wearing that charming smirk. “I’ll send my driver. Why are you even taking taxis? The underground’s much faster.”
“I don’t like the subway,” I groan. “I don’t know how to use it, and I don’t want to get lost. It’s so packed during rush hour. I’d rather not embarrass myself in front of a hundred strangers.”
“So, you think getting a taxi with a see-through shirt was better?”
He has a point.
I don’t think the cab driver was pitying me so much as staring at my chest. Naively, I thought he kept checking the rearview mirror to make sure that I was okay.
I throw a blanket over myself. As if covering up now changes the fact that I basically gave a free peep show. Ugh, what a pervert.
“Now that I think about it, that’s probably why he stopped,” I speculate. He scoffs. “You think that’ll work if I do it every time it rains?”
“If I were driving a taxi, I’d stop,” he says honestly.
“You’ve got the hormones of a teenager.”
“You’re not coming over?” he asks, right on cue.
“Why the interest in me?” I ask. I genuinely want to know.
He’s got that brooding-hot thing going on, a fanbase, probably an all-exclusive, secret dating app.
Even with his current poisoned image, I’m certain he could hand-pick his perfect woman.
And still, here he is—chatting me up while I’m wearing a less-than-sexy comfort pajama set.
“I find you refreshing,” he says. “I haven’t had anyone to bicker with in so long. It might sound stupid, but it feels nice to have someone not care about who I am. You wouldn’t think it, but it gets lonely. Plus, you keep me in line.”
“It’s not stupid.” I pause. “Trust me, I know lonely. But maybe don’t make that the standard for your friendships.”
“See,” he says, like I’ve proven his point. “There you go, telling it how it is. You’re so unapologetically honest.”
“I’m a terrible liar,” I admit. “When I was a kid, my mom made this new tuna casserole. It was horrible, but I couldn’t say that, so I lied and told her I loved it. I had to eat it every Sunday for about three months until she moved on to something else. I’ve not lied since.”
He laughs, low and amused. “Another quality worth exploring.”
“My dislike of tuna casserole?”
“No, love,” he chuckles. “Your humor.”
Huh. I never thought of myself as funny—just embarrassing.
I hear him shuffle around, a ringtone starting up in the background.
“Do you need to take that?” I ask, feeling like I’m imposing on his busy star life.
“No, it’s Peter, my manager,” he explains. The tone starts again. He sends him to voicemail. “It’s been hard to get a callback after what happened. I’m starting to think it might not be worth it, all this drama.”
“Do you want to talk about it? I mean, I don’t know what I’d do if—” I start.
The phone goes off for the third time. “Take the call, Harrison.”
He huffs. “Alright. Later?”
“Later,” I answer before the call drops.
The quiet rushes in too quickly, like I’ve stepped out of a steaming-hot sauna into the freezing cold.
It’s still early, which means my obsessive cleaning tendencies get to take over. I spend the next hour tidying up the kitchen, running a load of laundry, and picking a weather-appropriate outfit for tomorrow. The usual rituals of control.
By the time I’m done, it’s almost nine. I sigh loudly and let myself collapse onto the couch. I never thought I’d find even a sliver of peace within this loneliness. But now, halfway through week three, I’m starting to appreciate the time away from home.
I stare at the black mirror of my phone screen and wonder if Harrison has something to do with it. My days pass faster, chasing that high since our hands touched for the first time, note after note, message after message. I should feel anxious, guarded, on high alert, ready to protect myself.
Instead, the void inside me feels… a little less vast. Less loud.
I scroll endlessly through TV shows—all while I sort through the pictures I’ve taken these past few weeks—until I’m once again met with his baby blue eyes.
Made of Fear.
If I didn’t believe in coincidences before, I do now. Six full seasons to binge-watch.
I make it all the way through the third episode when Emma calls me back.
“How was that?” she asks.
“It was crazy. This whole thing is crazy,” I blurt.
Watching him on screen after talking to him in real life was probably not the best strategy to keep my brain calm.
“I’m impressed. I never thought phone sex could be that good,” she starts, completely unhinged. “Might consider finding some for myself––”
“How much coffee have you had today?” I laugh. Probably too much.
“Third cup now. Busy day. What can I say?” she says. “Seriously though. How was it?”
“Ugh, it was fine,” I say, frustrated. “He’s funny and cheeky, and it doesn’t help me in my goal of not liking him. He invited me over. I’m not a hundred percent sure if he was being serious, but I told him I couldn’t.”
“Jay! The whole point of Operation Move-On was to get you laid,” she says in a very loud whisper. “You’re hijacking it!”
“I was never on board with it!” I huff. “I’m too scared to get emotionally attached to someone I’m having meaningless sex with. It’s a recipe for disaster. Especially if that someone is Joshua Harrison.”
“It’s been almost a year since you-know-who,” she reminds me. “If you’re going to go for a rebound, there is no one sexier than him, that’s for sure.”
“I’m not cut out for that,” I stress. “I don’t know.”
“Well, would you rather take the chance of getting to know him and potentially putting yourself out there, or stop talking to him altogether?” she asks.
“Why would I have to stop talking to him?”
She clears her throat and makes her voice deeper, simulating a TV reporter. “Harrison’s new heartbreak: Julia Thomas.”
“You’re the queen of overreacting,” I tell her.
“This guy has gone out of his way to get in contact with you since you met. I think it’s safe to say he’s at least smitten,” she says. “At least be sure he knows you are not available.”
“Fine, I’ll sleep on it.”
"Will you also think about calling your mom back? She misses you…”
I groan painfully. “I will soon.”
“Good, keep me posted. Love you, Jay.”
Wednesday morning goes by in a blink. Keyboards clicking and hushed conversations fill the space. The concentration is palpable, so much so we haven’t even had time to go for breakfast all together. My stomach rumbles loudly, reminding me I haven’t eaten anything since last night’s dinner.
I grab my purse and head to the cafeteria. I’ve been slumping all morning. Ever since my conversation with Emma, my brain’s been on a hamster wheel. If Harrison is looking for more than a friendship, I’m not sure I can offer that.
Still, a big part of me—the one that feels like a stranger, miles from home—wants nothing more than to be selfish and pretend that everything will work out.
After the breakup, I didn’t think I’d ever want to get involved with a man in any sort of way.
Until him. A breath of fresh air. Naturalness when it was least expected.
A sigh escapes me, a little louder than I thought. I look around, self-conscious, but no one notices. Everyone’s too busy with their phones or screens.
My lunch options are bleak: salads that look like they gave up halfway through existing or prepackaged sandwiches that were probably in their prime last week. I decide on the latter—a chicken sandwich with some iced tea—and head to the corner table furthest from the door.
I lean my head against the wall and take a few seconds to just…
exist. Even during their breaks, people here seem busy.
Calls, laptops, highlighters flying across paper.
Not a single person is just eating. The guy two tables over is using one hand to eat while the other scrolls through his phone. Blend in, I remind myself once again.
I pull my phone from my pocket and slide on my headphones.
The background noise disappears, leaving me alone with memories of what lunch would be back at home.
There was always someone to chat away with even if we were not from the same department.
Maybe the stereotypes are true, and people here are more focused on keeping work separate from the rest of their lives. Or maybe it’s me that’s changed.
With my phone now propped up against my water bottle and the show queued up, I’m ready to self-indulge in forty-five minutes of police drama and thirst traps courtesy of Joshua Harrison.
I’m about done with my sandwich—surprisingly good for something that came out of a vending machine—when I’m interrupted by a message from none other than him.
Harrison
Morning love.
It's the afternoon.
Harrison
Even better. Let me take you out to lunch. I can be outside in fifteen minutes.
I stare at my phone for a full minute, blinking at the no-filter, no-shame audacity. Emma’s warning from last night flashes across my brain like a neon sign: Are you ready for this?
No. Probably not.
Will I ever be ready? I don't have the answer to that question.
I’ve had lunch, and I’m not going out with you, Harrison.
Harrison
Why not?
Why me?
Harrison
Why not you?
I’m a normal girl like any other.
Harrison
You make me feel normal.
That last one hits harder than it should. He doesn’t need to say anything more for me to understand.
It’s overwhelming—and somehow makes me feel worse. He doesn’t deserve to be let on. Not when he’s this honest.
I’m still not going out with you.
Harrison
Why not?
Is it the media? I know we haven’t talked about it, but just know I didn’t start it.
It’s not that.
I’m not ready.
Harrison
Ready for what?
Another question that I don’t fully know the answer to.
And one that would force me to relive that which I am trying not to think of.
My mind is cloudy; I don’t know how to proceed. If I open up and tell him my story, I risk him telling me he’s looking for more than a friendship. If I don’t say anything, I might be stepping into something I can’t handle. Either way, I’m cornered by my own silence.
I have to get back to work.
Harrison
Alright, but I will get you to go out with me.
If you say so.
Harrison
It’s a promise.