“I don’t know. I’m not sure I can handle any more responsibility at the moment—so I’m going to pass on a cute little girl puppy.”
“You are pretty irresponsible, so that makes sense,” she teases.
I huff loud enough for her to hear my exaggerated frustration. “You know … your letter this morning, it got to me. I hope you know I wasn’t looking at you like you need saving. In fact, I really admire your independence. A lot of women don’t try to be self-sufficient like you.”
“How did this just become about me again? We were talking about a puppy.”
“Journey, I say.
“Brody,” she replies.
“I need you to know that I’ve been pursuing you because I think you’re hot as hell, I’m attracted to you, and your personality is a turn-on to me. I don’t know why you think I’ve been following you around like a stalker, but it isn’t because I feel sorry for what you’re going through. I mean, I do, but that is not the reason I’ve been aggressively trying to convince you to spend time with me.”
“Good,” she says. “But there’s a lot about me you don’t know, and I’m concerned that once you know more about me, you might feel otherwise.”
I can’t say I don’t have a nervous pit in my stomach, wondering what it is I don’t know about her yet, but I suppose it could be just about anything considering she has a married last name and went through a mysterious divorce too. We’ve both lived lifetimes since we were around each other last. “We can’t hold ourselves responsible for whatever path led us to where we are right now,” I say. “The past is the past; the present is now, and the future is up for grabs.” I’ve said this to myself repeatedly, trying to force myself to believe my own words.
“I guess,” she says. “What if we’re still on the same path we’ve always been on, though?”
“There’s time to veer off the road,” I answer.
“Oh my God,” she mutters. “Brody.”
“What? I was kidding. Kind of.”
“I know—it’s just—you know what, maybe we can redo last night and try again.”
I pause, needing to make her sweat and feel a little discomfort for a minute. I still haven’t fully forgiven her for running off last night. Not yet, anyway. “I don’t know. Are you going to run off and blame me for caring about you again?”
“Ouch,” she says. “I thought my letter was very well written with a lengthy explanation and an invitation for forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness needs to be earned. When it’s just handed, it can come back to bite you in the ass again.” Maybe Journey doesn’t deserve this explanation, but I’ve done a lot to protect myself over the last few years just as she has, or so it seems. I might be a weak man, ready to kiss a girl at the quick batting of her lashes, but when it comes to investing my heart into something, I need to know there’s something there and it’s mutual.
“You are totally correct and I’m sorry for assuming you should just forgive me for being rude last night. What if I tell you the pizza made me sick? Would you forgive me then?”
“The pizza made you sick?”
“Mmm—”
“In your letter, you sort of made it sound like you ran because you thought I was making you into my new pity project. Or did I misunderstand?”
“Okay, maybe a bit of both,” she confesses.
“Hmm. The pizza didn’t make me sick. Maybe it was something you ate earlier in the day,” I suggest.
“No. My stomach and I don’t get along too well. It’s part of the pieces you don’t know about me yet. It’s not a conversation for the phone.”
My mind is spinning, wondering what she could mean. I can only assume she has stomach issues, but it seems like a simple answer to give rather than it being a piece of what might scare me away from her. “Does all pizza make you sick?”
“No,” she says. “There isn’t a particular food that makes me sick. It’s more complicated—it’s an issue I’ve been dealing with.” I can tell she wants to change the subject, which is fine since I have a completely different question.
“Is it as complicated as telling me why your Jeep is in my driveway at home?” I ask, pulling up next to her. She’s here. At my house. Uninvited. It’s something I would do, and I kind of love that she does what she wants. I guess I’d call her a free spirit.
13
It wasn’t as muchof a surprise to find Journey’s Jeep in my driveway as it was to see her lounging on my couch inside my house. My doors were locked, so she’s either good at picking locks or breaking a window. I’m not even sure I want to know.
“Did you know that the number one place a burglar looks for a spare key is under a doormat?”
