“What?” I asked. He’d been so affable all evening. The iciness of his response and his body language mystified me. “Weren’t they great? I hope they make good on their promise to have us over next.”
Josh didn’t say anything. He stared out at the night. A few leaves whispered in the big maple in front of the building. An L train passed by, cackling and sending off sparks from the tracks. Over on Ashland, people talked and laughed. Like Josh, the wind had taken on a chill and I wondered how long it would be before the first snowflakes fell.
“Josh?” I touched his arm and he shrugged my hand away.
“I didn’t really care for them.”
I was genuinely puzzled and disheartened. All evening, Josh had been outgoing and charming, cracking jokes, keeping wineglasses filled, and making sure everyone was satisfied and comfortable. This was the last thing I expected.
To my eyes, we’d all gotten along superbly. The four of us were similar ages and worked in jobs that put us at about the same income level. They got my sense of humor, which can be a little quirky, moreLittle BritainandAbFabthanHow I Met Your MotherorParks and Recreation. Dan shared the same taste in books that Josh did—tearjerkers from the likes of Jodi Picoult and Nicholas Sparks. Michael and I exchanged a glance when talked turned to books, since he and I were, um, on the same page when it came to reading material. We both loved thrillers from writers like Michael Robotham, Dennis Lehane, and Laura Lippman. We also loved true crime.
Now, looking back, I remember how Josh had abruptly changed the subject when I brought up the true crime genre by asking, “What are you guys streaming these days? Anything we should watch?”
Deflecting?I couldn’t help but wonder.
My spirit deflated like a popped balloon. I headed toward the door to go back inside. Josh followed. Silently, I moved to the kitchen, where I began scraping and rinsing plates. It was silly, but I wanted to cry. I’d banked so much on this dinner—the hopes that we’d perhaps find another couple to hang out with. Despite enjoying my time with Josh, I’d learned a long time ago that, no matter how much one wants it, no one person can ever be the be-all and end-all to another.
“So what? You’re mad at me now because I didn’t like them?”
I closed my eyes, irritated with him. I didn’t say a word as I loaded the dishwasher. Finally, when I finished, I took my time rinsing my hands off and drying them. I looked at Josh, leaning against the arch that led into the kitchen. In that moment, I just wanted to be away from him, to lick my wounds.
I edged by him and went into the living room and plopped down on the couch.
He sat next to me, waiting.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding in. “I’m not mad, not really. I’m just disappointed. These seemed like perfectly nice guys—and you have to admit, we had a lot in common. We had good conversation. We made each other laugh. What more do you want?”
Unbidden, a thought came to me as though I’d pulled it from Josh’s mind—what I want is you, all to myself.
He stared straight ahead and then said something I couldn’t believe, something that never even occurred to me. “I don’t like the way Michael looks at you.”
“What are you talking about?” I hissed. “He looks at me like he looks at you. I admit, I think he’s cute, but he’s with Dan and I’m with you. I certainly saw nothing inappropriate.”
Josh snorted. “He looked at you, like fat Dan stared at that chicken when you brought it out—ready to devour some meat. Practically drooling.” He laughed.
I wasn’t sure what to say. Between the fat-shaming and the wildly inaccurate characterization of how Michael regarded me, I was flummoxed. I certainly didn’t find any humor in his words. The only thing I knew for sure was that, in this moment, I was overcome with disappointment and exhaustion.
At last, the words came to me. “I’m really tired.” I didn’t look at him. “How about if we spend the night at our own places tonight?” I was so grateful we hadn’t yet taken the step Josh seemed to want so much—moving in together.
“Oh now, don’t be like that.” He reached for me and I stood.
“Seriously?” he glared at me.
“Seriously.”
He stared at me for a long while, although I pretended not to notice. He moved to the front door and paused while he put on his denim jacket. At last, he was ready to go, hand on the doorknob. He said, “I’m sorry two is not a sufficient number for you.”
And then he was gone. I expected him to slam the door behind him, but he closed it with care.
I waited a couple seconds and then crept out to the balcony, where I watched him, shoulders hunched against the wind off the lake, heading east, from the shadows.
There was a part of me, maybe, that hoped he’d turn around and come back. Another part longed for the luxury of occupying my own bed, alone, for the first time in a long while. I imagined waking up late, making coffee, reading on the couch, while Spotify played Brahms.
*
Despite the tension, I fell asleep quickly. As an introvert, entertaining wore me out, much as I craved it. Hosting guests sucked all the energy from me.
This is my long way of saying I fell asleep quickly.
