Josie still hasn’t answered any of my texts. I’ve been waiting all Monday, and now it’s Tuesday. Forty-nine hours since we said goodbye in person, but who’s counting? I’ve got my ringer cranked up as loud as it’ll go, and every time I get a message, I nearly jump out of my skin. All work stuff—folks buzzing about how far the prototype’s come, confirmation for the investor launch, final graphics approval.
Never Josie.
I’m stuck in a no-man’s-land between giving her space and wanting to just bloody well know what’s going on.
How did I get this so wrong? I thought I understood her.
I can’t bear it another minute. I need to see her face-to-face. I pick up my phone and call. As it rings and I wait for her to pick up—please, let her pick up—my mind flits back to Shimmy Beach. The memory of us side by side in that massive king bed. Every touch, every sensation, every shared moment felt as if it happened outside the boundaries of any sexual or romantic experience I’ve ever had before. It’s as if that night unlocked a door to another dimension in our relationship, and I can’t dismiss it as some escapade. As data.
As something less than it was.
How could she?
“Axe?” Her voice, so calm and familiar, grounds me as soon as I’ve got her on the phone. I suddenly feel completely ridiculous. There’s no need for us to be in communication until next week, when she’s supposed to come in and give us notes on what we’ve created. But she doesn’t sound surprised to hear from me, either.
“Josie, I need to see you about the app,” I say, as the first excuse that pops into my head spills out. “Can we meet? Tonight?”
There’s a pause on the other end. Just long enough for me to worry that I’ve made a right mess, again—but then she answers, her voice soft and filled with something I can’t quite place. “Yes, I think…we need to talk. Why don’t you come by my apartment tonight? At about seven? I’ll cook us something.”
I thank the God I most certainly don’t believe in.
“Sounds grand. I’ll bring us something, too.”
The rest of the day stretches out like an endless Monday morning. By the time I’m taking the stairs two at a time to stand outside Josie’s apartment door, I’m a bundle of nerves.
She opens it before I’ve even knocked, greeting me with a smile that makes my stomach flip over. She’s wearing a simple, silky peach jumpsuit, her curls are pulled back, and her eyes shine with that familiar spark I’ve become addicted to.
“Come on in,” she says brightly, but there’s a flicker of something else in her eyes—an uncertainty or worry that she’s trying to hide. She looks knackered.
As soon as I walk inside, I’m struck by how perfectly Josie’s apartment reflects her personality. The small space is a whimsical haven, alive with color and creativity. Gauzy curtains float at the windows, spilling soft light onto a lilac sofa covered in soft feather pillows. The aroma of something delicious fills the air, along withthe sweet scent of jasmine from the vase on her small dining room table, set for two.
On every surface, tiny votive candles flicker.
I take it all in, feeling a smile spread across my face, even as the business side of me now realizes the irony—that without a lot more input about what Josie’s very own perfect night would look like, She’s the One is destined to fail. We’ve captured only one-tenth of her magic.
But I don’t want to talk about any of that.
“This place is brilliant, Josie,” I tell her. “It’s so…you.”
“Tell me the truth,” she says. “How many of my apartments would fit in yours? Five? Ten?” I keep the real answer to myself. Josie’s place is smaller than my walk-in closet.
“Everyone knows size doesn’t matter,” I say with a smirk, knowing otherwise.
I follow her into her kitchenette, where the countertops are crammed with bits and bobs from Grace & Honor. A set of floral-printed nested measuring cups and matching spoons. Ceramic salt and pepper shakers shaped like little owls, their eyes wide and watchful as they perch on the counter. Above the stove hangs a decorative tea towel embroidered with stars and moons, adding a touch of Josie’s love for astrology to the space. Every item has been lovingly chosen, unlike my loft, which was outfitted years ago by a ferociously overbearing interior designer named Helga who couldn’t keep her hands to herself.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Josie says, glancing over her shoulder with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I sense an undercurrent of something she’s trying to hide.
“Smells delicious.” I lean against the doorframe, watching her work. “You really went all out.”
“I drew the Empress card from my deck this morning,” shereplies, her hands moving deftly as she slices through a cucumber. “The Empress means nurturing and care. So I figured it was a good day to dig out one of Nonna’s recipes. Cooking is kind of therapy for me.”
“Well, I’m chuffed to reap the benefits,” I say as I spy a loaf of homemade focaccia on the counter, its golden crust speckled with rosemary and sea salt. Her back is to me, but she’s tensed, on alert. “Are you sure everything’s all right with you?”
She hesitates, the knife pausing in the air before she resumes chopping. “Some family stuff,” she says lightly, though her voice is thin with strain. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
She adds the cucumbers to a wooden bowl, and as she moves around the kitchen, I notice a hen-shaped timer ticking away next to a collection of whimsical hedgehog canisters with tiny acorn handles, labeledCoffee,Tea, andMagicin Josie’s round bubble handwriting. Her kitchen feels like a world apart from anywhere I’ve ever lived—especially during my own childhood. I’ve never known a sense of comfort quite like this. My father’s world was one where children were kept out of sight and meals were eaten alone in my nursery or among strangers.
Rosy-cheeked with triumph, Josie serves us up two heaping plates from the stovetop skillet. “It’s called Chickadee Lemon Basil Pasta Delight,” she says. “Nonna’s recipe. Pasta in a creamy lemon sauce with strips of tender chicken and a sprinkling of fresh basil.”
