Chapter 10 Jonathan #2
I blink at him, my fingers curling tighter around the bourbon bottle until my knuckles go white. Heat flares across my chest. Why the hell do I suddenly feel like my skin’s too taut?
“You like Abby?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral. It fails, miserably.
Manny doesn’t notice or pretends not to. “I’ve had a thing for her for a while. Just never said anything ’cause I figured you two were mortal enemies.”
“I don’t hate her,” I bark.
He nearly spits out his beer. “Okay, man.” He chuckles. “You don’t hate her.”
“I don’t!” I shoot back way too defensively. “I mean. I offered to fake date her, didn’t I? Who does that for someone they hate?”
He gives me a look. “Exactly.”
I lean back, trying to play it cool even though my brain is doing laps. “What would you have done if we were actually dating?”
Manny pauses, thoughtful for once. “I was gonna say congrats,” he says simply. “I just want you to be happy, bro. Even if it’s with the chick I’m crushing on.”
That’s the thing about Manny. He’s a good guy.
Like, good good. The kind of guy AJ probably would go for, if she was into dating anyone.
From what I’ve seen, she’s not. In all the years we’ve worked together, I’ve never heard her gossip about a crush, never caught her flirting, never seen her even look at someone that way.
I always figured the devil didn’t need a spouse.
Now, though? Maybe AJ does want someone.
Maybe she’s finally ready. Maybe it’ll be Manny.
The thought makes that weird heat rise again, this time creeping all the way to my face.
I glance down at the bottle. Okay, that’s enough bourbon for tonight.
Just then, the intercom buzzes.
“Mr. Slack,” Frank’s voice crackles through. “Your delivery is here.”
I walk over and press the button. “You can send them up, Frank. Thanks.”
Within minutes, there’s a knock at the door. I stand to open it and Manny springs up like he’s been starved for days and grabs the bag from the delivery guy, immediately spreading out the containers like we’re hosting a buffet. He’s clearly starving.
Me? I’ve completely lost my appetite. Can I really stomach the idea of my closest friend dating my work nemesis? Correction: my fake girlfriend? The thought alone makes me want to double down on the bourbon.
“Here you go,” Manny says, sliding my food toward me with a plastic fork.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to sound normal.
We eat in silence for a beat. Well, Manny eats and I push my food around while he inhales his like he’s being timed.
There’s grease on his mouth and I just know AJ would cringe at how sloppy he’s eating.
Still, he’s a good-looking guy. Taller than me, tattooed forearms on full display under a fitted tee.
At work, he keeps them covered. Tonight?
He looks like a magazine ad with a pulse.
I wonder if AJ likes tattoos. Manny could probably hook up with half the office if he wanted to.
But he doesn’t. Manny’s not like me. He doesn’t sleep around. He’s the nice, hot guy of the office.
“Hey, what do you want me to say to AJ?” I ask, my voice more clipped than I mean it to be.
He pauses mid-bite, wipes his mouth and shrugs.
“Just tell her I’m a good dude,” he says. “Tell her I take care of my grandma, I want marriage, kids… the whole deal.” He glances at me, sincere. “Abby seems like the kind of girl who’d want that.” Then he grins. “Also, it’s true.”
He’s got a decent strategy going on. AJ does seem like the white-picket-fence type. Golden retriever. Carpool line. Two or three kids. PTA board president. And Manny? He’s exactly the kind of guy who’d give her that life.
Dammit. That feeling again. It’s crawling up my spine, warm and irritating. Wait… I know this feeling. It’s jealousy. Jealousy over what, exactly? AJ and Manny? Please. That’s laughable. Right?…Right?
Suddenly, the mix of too much bourbon and the smell of Chinese food hits me like a freight train. I shoot up from my stool and sprint to the sink just in time to throw up.
“Bro!” Manny shouts, practically leaping away from the counter. “Are you okay?”
He shuffles his food out of splash range like it’s a crime scene, eyes wide.
I wash my face, rinse my mouth with water and grip the edge of the sink like it might keep me standing.
“You think it’s the food?” Manny asks, inspecting his takeout container like he’s about to disarm it.
“I didn’t even eat mine yet,” I croak, gesturing toward my still-sealed carton.
“Oh. Right.” He blinks. “No offense, dude, but I can’t be around vomit. I’m a sympathy puker. It’s like a chain reaction.”
“I’m fine,” I say, waving him off.
He cautiously lowers his hand from his mouth and resumes nibbling like nothing just happened.
“Okay, cool. That was crazy,” he says breezily, like I didn’t just audition for a remake of The Exorcist.
“Yeah,” I mutter, wiping my face with a paper towel and heading back to my bar-stool.
We finish our food in near silence, except for the occasional grumble about the upcoming Yankees season.
After Manny leaves, I clean up the takeout containers, toss the bag down the trash chute and make a mental note to never mix bourbon and the smell of egg rolls again.
As I walk back into my pristine apartment, I tell myself the vomiting was the booze.
Not the jealousy. Definitely not the idea of Manny dating AJ.
Couldn’t be that. I’m not some overly emotional girly man freaking out because he might be catching feelings for his fictitious girlfriend. Nope. Not me.
“I hate AJ,” I say out loud to my empty apartment. I clear my throat and adjust my shirt. “I don’t like AJ.” I correct my wording. And just like that, the lie echoes a little too loud.