Normally, well, I’d know. Then again, normally he’d know about Adam, too.
“Proof I should never have tried to fit in by playing high school sports,” he continues. “I looked ridiculous. Iwasridiculous. If only we knew as kids what we know now. No one you knew back then becomes someone you know now. None of that even mattered.”
My mind goes to the day when my mother had shown up late to pick me up, and the way everyone just walked right past me. The day I’d stepped to that podium and barely been noticed, despite being the center of attention. I’m not sure I agree that none of those experiencesmattered, even Jack and his hurt knee. They taught us to accept being stuck in the shadows while others frolic in the sunshine.
“I’ll handle the food,” I say. “I’ll call an order in to Caroline’s and then run and grab us some bagel sandwiches. You take care of your knee.”
His eyes soften with gratitude. “Thanks, M,” he says, using a nickname he’s called me for years, but, I realize now, not recently. I wonder why I didn’t notice. I wonder why he uses it now.
Chapter Forty-One
I call in a lunch order for the entire floor-three staff, which is five people today. Purse on my shoulder, I hurry through the library before I end up caught in the hurricane of questions and requests again.
When I exit the library, I’m considering the idea that Jack is, or perhaps was, dating someone, and this shift in nicknames and behavior between us reflects this in some way. Maybe he didn’t want me to know about his new love interest, though I’m not sure why. We’ve always discussed our dating lives. Always. It was literally only a month after I started working with him that he had a date from hell and spilled the entire story.
That morning I’d watched him with a female patron, seen his interest in her, the light in his eyes, the body language that was all about her and only her. She’d forgotten his name twice, and I’d felt his frustration. We’d gone to lunch that day, something that had already become our habit, and often. His order had been wrong, and he’d struggled to gain the counter person’s attention with the same success—no success—which I generally believed was the kind of experience reserved for me and me alone. When he’d finally given up, defeat was written in his expression—scribbled frown lines and frustration.
“Happens to me all the time,” I told him.
We’d bonded that day on a new level, creating a friendship that swiftly became enduring, solid. A few days later we were at the same burger joint when he’d said, “My sister set me up with her friend.”
“And?” I’d asked eagerly, thrilled we were now at this level in our relationship, the place where we share things we might not tell others.
“She forgot my name,” he’d ground out through his teeth. “The woman could not remember ‘Jack’ if her life depended on it. I even told her ‘Jack, like Jack in the Box,’ because, of course, I’m an idiot. I mean, Jack in the Box, Mia? I really said that. And shestillforgot my name.”
“Bitch,” I’d said, which was the first time I’d cursed around him.
He’d blinked at me, met my stare, and then barked out laughter. I’d grinned and joined him, giggles overtaking me. After that our friendship shifted, deepened. We were no longer just work friends who aren’t really friends at all but rather people we are forced to know and get along with. We werefriends, with a growing bond that only grew stronger over time.
My thoughts shift back to present day. At this point, considering the invitation to the wedding, as his date, I’d assume anyone he was dating to be past tense, unless he intends to use me to shelter the new woman from his sister? Or use that time to tell me about the new girlfriend? These ideas burn in my belly in an uncomfortable way. Am I jealous? Maybe not as a woman, but as a friend who is fearful of a divide between us that I already feel present.
My cellphone rings, and I snake it from my purse to find Jess’s ID on my screen, probably calling about the message I sent earlier to decline lunch. Jess, who I’ve shared an enduring relationship with since college, a bond my conversation with Jack has reminded me is exceedingly rare. “Hey, you,” I greet. “Sorry about lunch. It’s just a madhouse at the library. We couldn’t even get delivery. The kids have them backed up. I’m having to run to Caroline’s to grab bagels.”
“I have a big story I’m working on anyway that’s heated up today.” She shifts away from lunch altogether. “Real quick. I wanted to talkabout the dating-app story.” I’m about to defend my silence on this subject when she adds, “I’ve decided to put it on hold.”
About to enter Caroline’s, I halt just outside and step to the wall, allowing the busy foot traffic to hustle past me. “Don’t do that because of Kevin,” I argue. “This does not affect me and you, Jess. I’m not upset.”
“You call me every weekend, Mia. Not once this weekend. And I left you three messages.”
I cringe as it becomes crystal clear that I’ve allowed my new relationship, or whatever this is with Adam, to cause the neglect of my two Js, my ride or dies. “I didn’t check my messages,” I say. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was reading. The weather and a good book, you know? I’m sorry.”
The lie is bitter on my tongue, an acidic guilt washing up in words and bad behavior.
“I’m not doing the article,” she replies firmly. “And good Lord, these men on the app are not the caliber I want either of us dating, Mia.”
Except Adam,I think. Adam is different from all the others, but I’m still holding his existence close to my chest, my secret, and I don’t know why. I justam.“This is yourSex and the Citystory,” I remind her, refocusing on my friend, who remains forever important to me. “It’s a good story,” I add. “And the disaster that the experience is for me and you, including the Kevin situation, will make for a good read. Just don’t use my name or his. And donotlet Kevin get in between me and you or you and your work.”
“I’m not letting him orthis storyget between us, Mia. We can talk about it this weekend. I’m afraid I’m so busy it’s going to be Friday night again before we can grab a minute of quality time.”
“It sounds like you’re onto a big story.”
“We’ll see,” she ponders cautiously. “I’ll tell you about it when we have more time. Friday? Just me and you this time.”
“Yes,” I say, but now with a pinch of yet more guilt, this time at shutting out Jack, but still I add, “Just me and you this time.”
“Later, beautiful,” she teases.
I roll my eyes at the reference to my secret admirer, or stalker, or whatever I have, or had, going on.
