As much as I hate to accept it, perhaps it’s best if this were a one-time thing. “I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow,” I decide aloud. “But I’m sure he’ll agree that it was just a bit of fun. Probably shouldn’t happen again.”
“What if he doesn’t agree?” she asks. “What if he was hoping this was the start of something real?”
The start of something real.My stomach swoops at the thought before dismissing it. Thirteen years of being a bit of fun, something to be gotten out of the system before one settles downwith someone more suitable, has made it much harder to convince myself that anyone could truly ever see me as anything else. And if no one wantedrealwhen they thought I was perfect, well, Cal certainly couldn’t wantrealwith the imperfect, eccentric,too muchversion of me. “Then I guess he’ll be disappointed, ’cause I only know how to do fake,” I say.
It’s like I can hear Bridget’s responding frown at the joke that she knows wasn’t really a joke at all. “Or,” she counters, “you could start dating.”
“No, we could not.”
“Why? Don’t you like him?”
“I do. But I don’t live here, Bridge, remember? When I go back to Jersey…”
“Right. It’s not like technology and transportation exist to facilitate long-distance relationships.”
“I’m not ready!” I say, a bit too forcefully. “I’m just…I’m not ready. I still have a lot of work to do on myself.”
“You are indeed a piece of work,” Bridget says.
I roll my eyes. “Notwhat I said.”
Her voice goes softer. “I know putting yourself out there without any pretense isn’t easy for you. But like you said, you’ve been that person with Cal this whole time and he seems to be into that.” My sister cuts the sweetness of her words with a mumbled “For some strange reason.”
“You’re right. I should go knock on his door right now and declare my undying love to a man I barely know and who I’m pretty sure is still hung up on his ex, all so that my older sister will get off my case.”
“You’re being purposely obtuse,” Bridget accuses. “And letting fear dictate your life.”
“Sure am,” I confirm, grabbing the remote and turning onthe TV. “Now, are we starting our show or not? I heard the author of the book and his wife have a little cameo in one of the episodes.”
She lets out another long sigh. “Fine. Just let me go pee again first.”
TWENTY
Callahan
I originally intended tofigure out where Annie was procuring her morning meatball subs and get her one, but it’s apparently going to take a bit of investigation. She might be making them herself, but I find it much more likely that she charmed one of the local spots into opening extra early just for her, since that’s the most Annie O’Neill thing I can imagine. In the meantime, I went over to the coffee shop and got her the blackberry white mocha she seemed to enjoy when she brought it back to the store after her big sale the other day. I hope it’s enough to show her how grateful I am.
Although really, is there such a thing? How do I repay her for giving me back the ability to hope? For restoring a sense of rightness that’s been missing from my life since things ended with Nicole—no, since Graham died? And, sure, also for the whole sucking my soul out of my body thing, but it’s really more about the emotional gift of it than the pleasure itself. Not that the pleasure wasn’t also quite welcome, of course.
I can’t wait to do it again. And again. And again.
Sexual stuff, yes, but I also just want to spend the rest of her time here making her happy in every way I possibly can. I want to wake up beside her every morning and trace the sunbeams on her bare shoulders with my mouth. I want to watch her fold her origami flowers from across the room without having to look away when she catches me. I want to help her figure out the best way to incorporate them into the display window, even if it makes it look tacky, just to see that proud look on her face when she takes it all in.
The circumstances aren’t particularly conducive to starting a new relationship. My store’s co-owner and operations manager are out of the country for another several weeks. I have a goose to track down and then figure out how to get rid of again in order to restore my lapsed friendship with my ex—assuming she doesn’t hold it against me that I’ve been ignoring her status update request texts. Most significantly, Annie will go back to New Jersey in December, leaving us a three-hour drive and a small fortune in tolls apart.
But these feelings, this sensation that I’m finally moving in the right direction…I know how elusive it is, at least for me. If I don’t grab it when it’s in reach and hold on tight, I may never get the chance again.
The bells on the door jangle slightly as a key turns in the lock. I look up from my phone to see Annie making her way inside. It must be colder this morning, because she’s wearing hot pink earmuffs along with her usual mustard yellow peacoat and Technicolor plaid scarf. Her cheeks are rosy from the wind, and I intend to take away their chill by cupping her face as I kiss her softly hello, but when I reach for her she takes a step backward and clears her throat.
“Good morning,” she says with false brightness as she unravels her scarf. “Feels like winter out there already.”
Okay. I’m not quite sure what’s happening. Did I do something wrong? Maybe I should have led with the coffee? “This should help a bit,” I say, handing her the paper cup once she’s hung her outerwear on the hook at the bottom of the stairs.
“Oh, thanks. That’s…really nice of you.” Annie glances at the writing on the side. “Why does it say ‘Asshat Van Shithead’?”
“Remember the barista I told you about? Mindy? Well, she’s very creative and knows how to hold a grudge.”
“Ah.” She goes to take a sip but freezes, her poppy red lips hovering over the lid. “Cal, I think we need to talk.”
