Chapter 11 #3
“I will,” I tell him as the waiter approaches to clear the table.
I hand him my credit card even though he hasn’t brought the bill, because now that I’ve straightened things out with Drew, I need to figure out what the hell happened with Lauren earlier.
It’s close to 11:00 p.m. in Boston and I still haven’t heard back from her.
As soon as Drew and I part ways, I text Lauren.
Jameson
Everything okay? You said you’d call back and you haven’t, so I just want to make sure.
Her response comes through about fifteen minutes later, when I’m in the elevator on the way up to my hotel room.
Lauren
Yeah, sorry about that. Quick trip to urgent care because Ivy got a bit too excited with the pans, and she dropped one on Iris’s hand.
Jameson
Is Iris okay?
Lauren
Yeah, her hand’s just bruised, nothing is broken. I’m more shook up about it than either of the girls. I guess that’s what I get for talking on the phone and not paying closer attention to what they were doing.
As soon as I’m back in my room, I tap on her name at the top of our chat and hit the screen to call her, except I accidentally video call her instead. Or maybe it was a subconscious choice because I want to see her and make sure she’s doing okay.
“Hey.” She’s lying on her side, her head on the pillow, and everything around her is black except for her face, which is lit up by the light of her phone screen. Her eyes are swollen and her face is red and wet.
“Hey. I didn’t mean to make this a video call . . . but I’m glad I did.”
“Why?” She lets out a laugh that’s practically a snort. “You wanted to see me looking like this?”
“I wanted to make sure you know this isn’t your fault. Accidents happen.” I shrug off my jacket and pull on the knot at my throat to loosen my tie.
She wipes the sleeve of her sweatshirt across her face, clearing away some of the tears. “How could I not blame myself? If I wasn’t so distracted talking to you, maybe Iris wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”
“Or maybe she would have. You could have been sitting right there next to them, and Ivy still could have picked up that pan and dropped it on Iris’s hand. Right?”
She heaves out a defeated sigh. “Yeah, I guess.”
“So, what are you really this upset about?”
She looks at the phone screen—at me—with the stunned look of someone who’s been caught in a trap. Then she looks away. “It’s just been one of those nights.”
“What kind of night is that?”
I set the phone down on the dresser so it’s propped up where I can see her, and then I unbutton the cuffs of my dress shirt and start unbuttoning the front.
“The kind where I remember how lonely it is doing this all by myself.” She wipes at her eyes with the cuff of her sweatshirt, which she’s balled around her fist. “But then again, I’ve been doing this alone all along.”
“What do you mean?” I ask as I slip the dress shirt off.
She catches sight of me there in my tightly fitted undershirt and lifts an eyebrow. “Nothing. Sorry, these are my problems to deal with, not yours.”
“Hold on a sec,” I say as I step out of the view from my phone, grab my sweats off the desk chair where I’d left them this morning, and quickly change.
Then I pick my phone up and head to the bed.
“Okay,” I say, once I’m sitting back against the headboard.
“Tell me what you meant about doing this alone all along.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” she says, and I think she rolls her eyes, but they are so swollen that it’s impossible to tell. I hate seeing her like this, but at the same time I’m relieved and maybe even a little bit honored that she’s sharing this moment with me.
“Are you sure that talking about it wouldn’t help?”
She gives me a low laugh, practically an inaudible rumble. “Is talking how you work out your feelings?”
“Sometimes,” I say, dropping my voice before I add, “Depends on what type of feelings we’re talking about.” A shiver runs up my spine because I know that my last comment was borderline inappropriate, and I halfway don’t care.
“Really,” Lauren says, her voice equally low. “And how else do you work through your feelings?”
If I didn’t know she was still grieving for her husband, I’d think she was flirting with me. “You don’t want to know that,” I say.
“Don’t pretend to know what I want, Jameson,” she says, but her eyes are closed and her words are slow, like she’s only half awake at this point.
“Why not?” I ask quietly as I reach over and turn out the light next to my bed so it doesn’t keep her awake.
“You were always terrible . . . at understanding . . .” She pauses, almost asleep now, and I hang on to her words, hoping she’ll finish that sentence so I know what it is I haven’t understood. But her pouty lips are parted slightly, and her breathing is so rhythmic she has to be asleep.
I give myself a moment to watch her sleep, and then I whisper, “Good night, Lauren,” before I disconnect the call.
I lie there for longer than I should, rehashing that conversation, trying to figure out why Josh wasn’t the partner she needed, and what she meant when she said I’ve always been terrible at understanding.
Did I not understand her? Or what she wanted?
I’d know so much more about where I stood with her if she’d finished that sentence.