He puts a hand on my arm. “That’s so hot.”
Eighteen-year-old me would be reciprocating his flirtation at this point. Hell, even twenty-two-year-old me would’ve leaned in. But even though I can note objectively that 1) he smells nice, 2) he’s not the worst to look at, and 3) he plays guitar in a band, I can’t summon the energy to care. It’s been a common theme of my singledom over the past four years, ever since Clay and I cut things off a couple years after college graduation. Hardly any man catches my attention, andnobodyholds it.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I slip past the guitar player, muttering that I’ll be right back.
When I look at the screen, my throat closes.
Will.
Who might be the singular exception to the nobody-holds-my-attention rule.
I haven’t forgotten he’s in town this weekend visiting his mother, but I’vealsobeen fairly confident we won’t bump into him (unless Mrs. Grant has developed a sudden penchant for rowdy cowboys and downtown honky-tonks).
I take a deep breath and walk to the opposite edge of the patio, holding onto the railing as I answer the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” It’s such a casual hey. That’s aheyyou’d use to greet alongtime best friend. That’s theheyDavid gives Camila when he calls her, I just know it. “You’re going to Andalo tonight. I just forwarded you the new reservation confirmation.”
For several drunken moments, I say nothing and stare at the gray beginnings of night folding into the sky. The crowd below is starting to fill out at the corners, and the volume of the whole city is on its way to all the way up.
“What?” I ask numbly.
“Thirteen, right?” Will asks. He sounds like he’s walking somewhere. “That’s what I said for the reservation. Thirteen of you.”
“Y-Yeah,” I manage. “How did you—”
“Don’t worry about that. Just check your email for the details. You need to be there at eight. I’ll cancel the Wagon Wheel reservation for you, okay?”
“Will.”
“Josephine.” There’s a touch of humor in his voice, as if he’s indulging me. Do I sound as drunk as I am? Can he tell?
“This isn’t what consultants do for their clients,” I half whisper.
On the other end of the line, a stretch of silence. A sigh. And then, in a voice that strips me of every bit of my sanity, he says, “I know, Josie. But it’s what friends do. And I think we could be friends. I think maybe we already are.”
It’s a bold claim. We’ve been back in each other’s lives for less than two weeks. Still, in that time, I’ve gained more ground with Will than I did our entire senior year.
It’s a shame neither of us tried very hard. Until now.
I white-knuckle the railing, feel the alcohol pulse and zip through my body. I want to say something—anything—but I’m terrified the words will come out wrong. Or maybe my true fear is they’ll come out honest. I can’t eventhinkstraight. Not when he’s sayingthosewords inthatvoice while I’mthisdrunk.
After this weekend is over, thoughts of him will become myprimary distraction, I can already tell. He wants to be friends, so why does it feel like there’s kindling in my stomach waiting patiently for a wisp of flame?
“Is that… What do you think about that?” he finally asks, like he’s holding out a friendship bracelet, waiting to see if I’ll put it on.
I nod my head, belatedly realizing he can’t see me. “Good,” I say, settling on that single monosyllabic word as the full extent of my abilities. “Being friends would be good.”
It’s a lie.
I’m pretty sure being friends with Will Grant would be really,reallybad, but only because he’s the first man in four years to make me fumble with my words, to make me reach for my lip gloss, to put my heart in my throat.
Sure, maybe part of that is based on the history of us, but something tells me if I’d met him from scratch the day he hit my car, I’d feel just the same.
“Okay then.” On the other end of the line, Will opens a door. “What time do you have to be at Andalo?”
“Eight,” I repeat.
