“I don't even know who I’d ask.” The words come out on a bit of a breathless gasp, and if it were anyone other than Alex I was talking to, I think I’d be sinking into the floor with embarrassment right about now at how obviously terrified I am.
Because it’s not just that I can’t think of a single man to ask.
The few, and I meanfew, times I’ve tried going out on a date since losing Stephen, I’ve never once initiated any of it. It’s nerve-wracking enough having to make small talk; worrying if I’m being interesting enough, remembering not to talk too much or too little (alright, obviously only one of those is really ever an issue), trying to find that impossible safe spaceof showing interest by asking enough questions while not coming off as intrusive.
Attempting to pull all that off with someone I’m even remotely attracted toandsomehow working up the courage to invite him on a date?
A preemptive urge to break out in a sweat and glaze over into tongue-tied silence is already setting in.
“It’s just a fucking date!” Alex tips back in his chair with a laugh. “Relax, Jess. That’s the whole point of this.Relax, have some fun,” he arches his eyebrows pointedly at me over his bottle. “Go out and get some.”
His grin turns wicked as I choke on the gulp of beer I’d unfortunately just taken.
Slapping me on the back, he laughs again. “Just so I can stop worrying about you?”
“Give me a month.” The words leap out before I can stop them.
Goddammit.
Thisis why Alex’s schemes are so deadly. I’m an adult, for Christ’s sake. I could walk away from all of this. Ignore it completely. Go back to my predictable, (currently) heart-break free life. Except he knows I won’t. For better or for worse, beneath all the shit he gives me, Alex loves me like the brother neither of us ever had. And I can’t stand to let him worry about me.
“Two weeks.” He pins me with that narrow-eyed stare again, daring me to argue.
“That’s not enough—”
He shakes his head, grinning because he knows he has me. “You’re more resourceful than you think. You’ll find someone.” He tips his head back, finishing off his bottle. “I haveconfidence in you.”
“That makes one of us,” I grumble, pushing my chair back from the counter to carry my plate across the kitchen so I can scrape my remaining half slice of pizza into the trash. My appetite vanished somewhere around the first sentence of this conversation.
“Hence the necessity of Todd,” Alex grins at me, taking the now empty plate out of my hands. “A little motivation is all you need.”
2
Jesse
For the past two years, I’ve rented a quaint, quirky, albeit drafty studio, made up of half the upstairs of a hundred-year-old house, situated on a side street in the U-District. Mr. Thorpe, the elderly and irritable owner of the building, lives downstairs, and until two weeks ago, the other half of the upstairs was occupied by a med student who might as well have lived at the hospital where she was interning for all the time she spent at home. Now that she’s moved out, the apartment is vacant. Somehow, knowing that I’m truly neighborless makes the space feel quieter than ever.
Contrary to Alex’s plans, I’m feeling distinctly unmotivated by the time I step inside and pull the door shut behind me. In fact, all I really want to do at the moment is forget about everything to do with dates and Todd.Especiallyin combination.
Kicking off my shoes, I head straight to crank up the heater before swapping out my damp clothes for pajama bottoms and a worn old t-shirt. It’s been an especially cold start to March, and the walk home from Alex’s left my clothes soggy with a drizzle that I swear had a few flecks of sleet in it.
Naturally I’d forgotten to take a coat tonight. Apparently,I’m practicing for the whole absent-minded professor thing.
Trying not to focus on how thoroughly I’m proving Alex’s observations about my need to get out more, I sink down into my well-loved chair beside the radiator. My book, a surprisingly well-researched historical fiction about Henry VIII, is where I’d left it last night, wedged between the threadbare pouf the seat and the cushy, if rather sunken in, base of my chair’s arm. In the few seconds it takes me to extract it and flip to the page where I’d left off though, I’m already restless.
Gritting my teeth, I focus my eyes on the page, trying to make myself relax.
I make it through one page before I realize I don’t have a single shred of memory of what I’ve just read. Instead of Henry’s growing mistrust of the Catholic church and obsession with the dark-haired Anne Boleyn, my mind is spiraling through a stomach-knotting list of places where I might be able to meet someone.
The absolute last thing I intend to think about tonight. And maybe a day or two longer. It’s not like the task Alex has set me will actually take the two whole weeks, and I can’t deny that procrastination is sounding pretty sweet at the moment.
Fucking Alex.
Huffing out an irritated breath, I stuff the book back into its spot in my chair, extract myself from the overstuffed softness, and wander over to the ancient upright piano that’s tucked against the wall in the corner by my front window. Since I can’t focus on reading and don’t have a hope of accomplishing anything to do with my stalled dissertation tonight, I might as well practice.
Playing the piano is a “talent” I’ve only acquired over thetwo years I’ve lived here; learned via free, prerecorded online lessons.
Technically, the piano isn’t even mine. When I moved into the apartment, it was already there, sitting against the same wall where I’ve left it. Mr. Thorpe’s grunted explanation was that a tenant of his had left it several years ago, and he couldn’t be bothered to have it hauled away.
