“I am. One of my guys called in sick today,” he says with strain in his voice, like he’s tossing something heavy. “I took on his jobs, so I’m getting finished a little later than normal. Putting away Clover’s tack now.” He sounds tired.
“That’s the definition ofbusy.I’ll let you go.”
This entire conversation is weird. Talking to James about what’s going on in my life would be even weirder.
I mean, yes, I often wear one of his shirts, but that was technically an accident. I found it at Noah’s place at some point and thought it looked comfy, so I stole it—not even realizing it belonged to James. He knows I have it because he saw me wearing it when I was home last year, but I informed him he would never get it back and he seemed fine with that. Because at the end of the day, we’re friendly. But making him hear my sob story over the phone? That feels like a step too far.
“Since when do you give a shit if you’re interrupting me or not? Stop trying to get off the phone and either tell me now what the hell is wrong, or tell me to my face after I get on a plane and show up at your door.”See . . . he’s a shovel guy.I wish I could say it didn’tgive me butterflies, but it really does. Only baby ones though. Little inconsequential flutters.
The bumping against my wall intensifies again and I look over at my dresser just in time to lean in and catch an unlit candle before it tumbles off. “My roommate is having sex.”
There’s a long, understandable pause.
James clears his throat. “And that’s . . . upsetting . . . you?”
I squint my eyes shut. “Well, I do feel bad that Sammy is having to listen to itagain.”
“Who’s Sammy?”
“My turtle. Sorry—tortoise.He doesn’t have fins.”
“You have a turtle?” he asks and again, another grunt pushes through his voice, accompanied by the sound of metal jingling. I picture him removing a saddle and hanging it on the wall. Oddly, this mental image is comforting and soothes a little of the ache in my chest. I know exactly where James is standing in the barn. I know what it smells like. I know that if he takes roughly fifteen steps to the left, he’ll be outside and staring up at the dark, inky sky, and there will be a thousand glittering stars.
I can’t see the stars very well in New York. Only one or two here and there. Something I never expected would bother me.
“Tortoise,” I correct. “I found him half-squashed in Central Park. So I rescued him from the wide-open space and now he lives in plastic captivity with a pink Band-Aid on his shell.”
“Every reptile’s dream.”
Obviously, it was more involved than that. I took him to a vet. They did the official mending and told me he’d need to be kept safe for about six months while he healed. Truthfully, though, I’m scared to let him go again. Maybe New York isn’t what he thought it would be either.
“I’ll let him go when he’s ready. But for now he gets to enjoy a never-ending supply of top-of-the-line leaves.”
“You’re president of the United States and a saint. You’ve really changed since you left Rome.”
Not as much as I would have liked.
And then the thumping sounds are not all that’s filling the air. Bryce and her date are vocally identifying where they’re at in their naked choreography.
“Geez,you weren’t kidding about your roommate,” James says. “I don’t think poor Sammy is coming out of this one uncorrupted.”
“His therapy is going to be expensive.” I lie back on my mattress and stare at the ceiling, pretending I’m looking up at the stars above Huxley Farm.
“Is that really why you’re crying? Are you . . . in love with your roommate or something?”
“Oh god no!” This actually makes me laugh, which feels so good. I haven’t laughed in a few days.Weeks?Maybe months, honestly. “Even if I wasn’t solely into guys, she’s a miserable person and I think I hate her? She’s so messy, and it’s been hard going from living with my sisters and our special dynamic of chaos to sharing a tiny apartment with this stranger who I can’t stand but don’t want to get rid of because at least she’s not a murderer, you know?”
“She must really be messy if you—the chaos gremlin—are commenting on it.”
“Rude.”
“It’s just a fact,” he says easily. “How many cups are on your bedside table right now?”
My eyes slide to the surface in question. “None.” My response is smug.
“Bullshit. I’m guessing . . .” He sounds like he’s squinting and, knowing James, cupping the bill of his hat. “Four?”
“You couldn’t be more wrong.”
