“We were childhood friends, but dating, sixteen.” He clears his throat, not meeting my eyes. “I’ve roasted potatoes as well as this.” He gestures at the pan. “They’re in the oven. Can you check on them?”
Well, he clearly doesn’t want to talk about that. And what do I know about counseling someone? I’m a decent listener, but it’s more from a lack of interesting things to contribute than anything else. Perhaps in a couple of weeks he really will be looking for somewhere to hide my body.
I slip down off my stool and head around the island, but as I pull down the oven door, his eyes are on the side of my face. When I turn, he gives mea small smile, and it’s almost unbearably apologetic and cute. “I’m liking this idea of firsts,” he says. “For both of us.”
I take in his warm face as I nod.
And after we’ve demolished a delicious meal, which I’ll frankly be amazed if I can ever make, my mind drifts back to our conversation about heroes. James picks up my plate and his, and I stare at his strong wrists and long fingers. As he wanders off to the dishwasher, all I can think is: Can I find the courage to be a quiet hero for him?
Chapter 13
James
Sadie’s questions last night made me finally drop the hand I’d been holding up and arrange to talk to Jane about the fact that I’ve moved out permanently. As I head out of the office at lunchtime, a message drops into my phone:
Where are you?
Five minutes away.
She catches my eye when I step into the Conwell Coffee Hall, brown hair pulled up in her familiar ponytail, and a clawing hopelessness I haven’t felt in over a week comes rushing back with a vengeance. I’d hardly noticed it had disappeared, but as soon as it fills my stomach, I remember it like an old friend I was hoping I’d never run into again. Thank God for Des and his apartment; if I was still living with Jane, I’d have no respite from this.
As I weave between the tables, she rises out of her seat, and I lean forward and kiss her cheek. The familiar scent of her lemony shampoo hits my nostrils. Or was it her body lotion? I can’t remember.
She pulls back. “Finally! How are you, Jim-bug?”
I can’t hold back my wince at the nickname. And we never had to ask each other questions like this: Living together meant we absorbed moods like osmosis. I could tell how her day had gone by the way she closed the front door. Though clearly that understanding was all on my side because she told me when we split up that she felt we were like brother and sister.
“I’m fine. Let me go order a coffee.”
She touches the stitches on my face, and I almost jerk back in surprise.Jesus.
“Is this from the accident?” she says. “I can’t believe I haven’t seen you since …”
“Let me get a drink and I’ll tell you all about it.”
As I stand waiting for the barista, I try to organize the details of that night in my mind. They’re fucking hazy. The sign on the door that said “NO ACCESS”; looking down at the myriad of lights and cars so far below; Des leaning over me and examining my face. Christ, I was so drunk. Why did I think I’d be brave enough to jump off a building? I snort. I injured myself dropping a bottle of booze on my face, and I have no recollection of where it came from or the leg injury. Suddenly, I’m gripped with a fierce desire to tell Sadie about this whole thing. I’m sure she’d give me an amused lip twist and some comment about the mess I’d make on the sidewalk.
I take my cup of coffee and slide into the seat opposite Jane.
“Yeah, I’m sorry I disappeared on you and ...” I am not saying that asshole’s name. “… that night.” I shake my head. “I ended up falling over a curb. I gashed my calf and cut my face. I just needed a few stitches. It was no big deal, really.”
“No big deal!” She gazes off to the side, jaw tight. “You should have called us! We would have taken you to the ER.”
Us. We. Christ.
“There was no need for Des to move you into his place,” she sniffs.
Says who? “Yeah, Des phoned me when I didn’t make it into the office.” Well, he called Pat the janitor, but close enough.
She frowns. “You weren’t in the apartment when I woke up. I just assumed you’d gone to work. Where were you?”
And the lies keep piling up. “The hospital.”
Her eyebrows rise. “All night?”
“It took a while to fix me up. They wanted a plastic surgeon to stitch my face.”
“It should have been me looking after you,” she says tightly. “You should have called me.”
