by Scott, S. L.
It would be so easy to tempt me back to bed if suspicion—confusion—wasn’t sitting like a rock at the bottom of my stomach. I’m tired and not thinking clearly. That has to be because this is just too familiar. And extremely odd.
While she’s happily humming, not in time with the song at all, under the bright lights of the kitchen, I try to figure out how to approach without startling her. I’m not sure how to make my presence known otherwise. I move from the shadows and grip the back of a dining room chair. “Hi.”
Whipping her gaze to the side, she finds me in the dim lights, and joy fills her eyes. “Hi there, sleepyhead. Thought you’d never wake up.”
“Most people are sleeping at four thirty in the morning.” I hate how serious I sound, cautious as if she’s a snake ready to strike. Innocent before proven guilty, I remind myself. “What are you doing?”
“Making tacos.” Her tone is lighthearted as if this is perfectly normal. “Since you didn’t have tortillas, I’m using lettuce wraps and calling it taco fusion.” Pondering that thought, she adds, “Maybe they should be taco wraps?”
“That works.”
She browns the ground beef as I take in the scene before me.
The island is covered with containers and the knives and utensils she’s been using to cook. A part of an onion is chopped on a cutting board, and diced tomatoes fill a bowl. Cheddar cheese is grated on a plate, and leaves of lettuce are drying on paper towels. “How long have you been awake?”
“Not long,” she replies, trading the spatula for the knife on the cutting board. After a few chops, she lowers it as she comes closer. “I like to think I can cook better than I do. I’m a work in progress.” It’s the first I get of the full view of her. Legs that haven’t seen the sun for a while dip out from under the hem of the shirt. They’re toned, shapely, and I have visions of how they looked wrapped around me that make me hard again. She says, “No kiss for the chef?”
I kiss her, wishing I was kissing her like earlier in the night. But trust has diminished, and I don’t deal well with lying despite my dick’s wishes. She licks her lips and asks, “Hungry? I’m starved.” Dicing the rest of the onion, she says, “I don’t know if you realize, but we missed dinner.”
“I didn’t.”
“Neither did I until my growling stomach woke me up.”
“Do you cook much?”
She sets the knife down to tend to the skillet, not letting me stop her one bit. Clicking it off, she says, “It’s done. Now we eat.” So easily distracting . . . but is it on purpose?
Moving to the other side of the island, I say, “I don’t.”
“You don’t what?” Handing me a plate, she adds, “Help yourself seems rude since it’s your food. But yeah, help yourself or I can make you a plate?”
I fucking hate that my stomach growls, my traitorous body making it difficult to stay on track. I have to. This conversation is long overdue.
“One or two tacos?” she asks, holding up the lettuce.
“Two.” Yeah. Yeah. I know. I’m such a guy who’s easily pleased. Sex. Food. Money. I’m that asshole. Seeing her take such care in putting the toppings on each leaf of lettuce has me softening the accusations in my head. Why am I mad?
She’s never told me where she lives. Technically, she hasn’t therefore lied. I think. Yet . . . this doesn’t sit right with me.
Why is she hiding something so basic as where she lives?
I stare at her, trying to figure out my angle, but then my gaze dips to the taco buffet. The best approach is direct, kind, and on a full belly. But this is so incredibly confusing.
My gut has never led me wrong, but I’m starting to think I’m just hungry.
Carrying her plate, she kisses my bicep when she passes. So much sweetness in the gesture that I hate to ruin the mood. I watch as she settles on the couch and starts to eat. I’m blowing this out of proportion. It has to be a coincidence—the music and food, cooking at odd hours.
I don’t let people into my life this easily. Once I got to know Juni, her intentions were pure. Innocence coated her every move. She looked at me for a friend, and I was happy to oblige. Well, after we realized the inevitable. The universe gave us signs. Did we read them all wrong?
There’s only one way to find out . . . right after I finish a taco. I wipe my mouth with a napkin, and say, “It’s really good. Thank you for making them.”
She leans forward with pride filling her eyes as she rubs my knee. “My pleasure.”
I finish one taco and toy with the other casually . . . as nonchalant as I can be without this coming on like an attack. If given the opportunity, I believe she’ll have a perfectly good reason for not telling me. I can’t think of one off the top of my head, but it is five in the morning. I say, “I usually wake up at this time to fit in a workout.”
Nodding, she swallows a bite, and then says, “I don’t love working out. I’ll do it when I have to. It’s a necessary evil.”
“I like it. Guess we’re different that way.”
The comment doesn’t seem to bother her, but she is eyeing me. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. Yeah, I’m fine. So where’d you say you live again?” Subtle. As subtle as a bulldozer.
She levels me with a glare. “What?”
“Huh?” It’s not that I’m afraid of her, but I don’t want to lose what we’ve become. Whatever that is.
She gets up and heads back into the kitchen. “All that cooking has made me tired.”
I reach for her, but she eludes me. Setting her half-empty plate on the counter, she asks, “Do you mind if I clean the kitchen tomorrow?”
“Juni?” I stand, not sure what the fuck I’m doing. I could destroy everything if I’m wrong. If I’m right, she already did. I just wasn’t made aware until it was too late. “Where do you live?”
“Why are you asking this at five in the morning?” She starts for the bedroom. “Let’s get some rest, and we’ll talk in the morning.” There’s a noticeable tremble to her voice, and she moves quicker.
She’s doing what she does best—distract from the topic at hand. I struggle not to let her win. Anything I do to disrupt the status quo means I lose, even asking her. “We said honesty and trust were pillars of our friendship.” Stopping with her back to me, she crosses her arms over her chest. “Now we’re more, or I thought that was the direction we were headed.”
When she finally turns around, she says, “We are. Last night was so good.”
“Then why won’t you tell me.” She makes no move to come forward. “Do you live downstairs?”
“Yes.” I barely hear her. She crosses her arms and tugs her bottom lip under her teeth.
Offering nothing more, I ask, “Did you know this entire time we’ve been seeing each other?”
“I didn’t know at the park. I didn’t know at the coffee shop.”
I don’t know why I’m so angry, but it’s hard to keep inside. But with a steady voice that I conjure from dealing with work catastrophes, I say, “Our relationship doesn’t span years, not even months. We’re a few weeks in, and you’ve already lied. And for what? There’s always a gain in play, a reward for winning. What’d you win, Juni?”
“I’ve wanted to tell you—”
“Then you should have.”
“It was a lie that snowballed.”
“I’d call it an avalanche. The one thing I don’t do well is allow people into my life. I allowed you.”
“I don’t understand why you’re upset.” A plea coats her tone as she covers the distance between us. “So I live in the same building.” Touching my chest, she says, “That’s good news, right? Now we can be close.”
She makes it so hard not to comfort her, to make the welling tears that glisten in her eyes go away. I resist. “This wasn’t a little lie.” I move to the window, remembering all the times just outside. “You dragged it out. You walked down the sidewalk like you were going to another building. You know Gil and pretended you didn’
t.” I rub my temple and take a deep breath. “Look, Juni, I have enough stress in my life. I got caught up in this chaos, but I think it’s best we end this now.”
“End it because you don’t like me, or end it because you do, and that scares you?”
I cross my arms over my chest, digging in my heels. “It doesn’t matter now.”
Her lips part, but she struggles to speak, her eyes closing as if in disbelief. When she reopens them, a glare full of daggers is aimed at me. “You’re upset because you have feelings for me. Well, guess what?” When I don’t say anything, she adds, “I did, too.” She pads down the hall in bare feet, leaving me to stew in the feelings I was so close to denying.
It doesn’t take but a minute before she has her skirt pulled on and her shoes, purse, and sweater in her hands. She looks smaller in her pain. Stopping in the doorway to the hall, she doesn’t look back, but says, “This is why I didn’t tell you.”
“And that’s why we’re saying goodbye.”
The door closes, and the automatic bolt locks in place—me on one side, her on the other, and deceit left between us.
24
Juni
That didn’t go as planned.
Maybe the problem is that there was no plan how we would play out at all, so the only direction was down.
I walk off the elevator to find Gil napping on the job. I don’t blame him. I step lighter, not wanting to wake him. I had hoped a shower could make me feel human again or lying down in bed would make me feel better. Neither worked, so I sit on the couch across the lobby from Gil, needing advice from my best ally. But after a while, I get hungry and wonder if he has a donut back there for me.
Tiptoeing over, I’m quiet as soon as I reach over the counter. My hand is lightly smacked.
Snapping it back, I say, “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” He slides his feet off the desk and onto the floor, sitting upright. “No stealing.”
“I thought you said you got that for me?”
“I did,” he replies. “To bribe you into spending time with me. Not take it and run.” Despite my inner turmoil, he makes it hard not to smile. “You sticking around for a few minutes?”
“I need your advice.”
He holds up the pink box. “Then take two.” I laugh. It’s light but feels like a good release of some of the turmoil swimming around in my stomach.
The one will do. “Thank you.” I take a donut and plant my elbows down on the counter. “By the way, you don’t have to bribe me to spend time with you.”
I only got one taco wrap before this night went off a cliff, so the sugary sweet is a nice addition to fill my stomach.
Studying me, he says, “Wet hair. PJ’s. Five thirty in the morning. What’s going on, Juni?”
I’m sure I’m a shining example of an emotional catastrophe, but I appreciate that he’s willing to tackle my issues head-on. “He found out.”
“He found out? Ah. Mr. Christiansen,” he says as if that’s the complete answer. Actually, I thought he was for a short time, like tonight. “He found out you live here? He found out that Rascal’s not your dog? He found out that—”
“Okay, let’s not get carried away. You hit the bull’s-eye the first time.” I rip a piece of the donut off, trying my best to savor something that usually brings a little joy. It’s good, but it can’t fix my troubles this time.
“I’ve been wondering how that would go over.”
“Why? We like each other, so me living in the same building should be a good thing. Why is he upset?”
“A lie’s a lie, Junibug. You know how I feel about them. Even little lies can cause significant damage.”
Maybe I’m tired. I rub my forehead, thinking the hour is messing with my head. That’s the only thing that can explain why I’m so emotional right now and explain the tears forming in the corners of my eyes. “I feel terrible,” I say, sniffling. “Worse than terrible, Gil.”
He gets up, the chair squeaking along with his bones working out the kinks from sitting too long. “Come here, kiddo.”
I let him wrap his hug around me and rest my head on his shoulder. “You warned me, and I didn’t listen. Now I’m paying the price.” I hadn’t cried until now. It’s a whimper, pretty pathetic if I were being judged. It’s not like Drew and I were so far gone we can’t turn around. “I liked him more than anyone else.”
“Sometimes, if we’re really fortunate, that happens.” He grabs a tissue and wipes under my eyes. “You’re strong. You always have been. I think you had to be, so I know what happened. You didn’t let him inside.”
“How could I? He didn’t know where I lived.”
“Your heart, Juni.”
Pointing out the obvious is sometimes necessary. I’ve avoided deeper feelings when it came to Drew, but tonight is a prime example of why I did it.
Why would I let him inside so soon after meeting? We were friends and coworkers. It’s fun to hang out with him, but did it become more without me realizing?
I ask, “How was I to know he’d mean more? Sure, he was cute with Rascal, and he lets me barge into his office at work anytime I feel like it. He gets protective when other guys look at me . . .” I finish the donut, shoving it in my mouth as if that will stop the twenty reasons that justify exactly why Drew and I can’t be friends. He’s grumpy but adorable. Grumpy-adorable? Whatever that means, I like it.
I like him.
Gil says, “Love—”
“Love? Let’s not get carried away, Gil.”
He chuckles, but it’s light, befitting the conversation that weighs on the heavier side. “Listen,” he says, gesturing his hand in front of him. I’ve learned that means he’s serious. “I know why you’re protective. You were done a disservice as a kid. I’m protective over you because of it, but if you like him, maybe like the new job, you show him. Love only blooms with an open heart. And if it’s not love, you’ll find out real soon.”
His words unexpectedly reveal a new side of the situation—Drew’s.
Drew welcomed me into his world, his private sanctuary. He didn’t treat me as if I were only temporary. He treated me like I belonged there with him. “Always coming in with the good advice. How do you know all this love stuff?”
“I’ve been around the sun a few turns, and what can I say? I have less than two hours until I go home to my sweetheart after a long shift. She’ll have a hot meal waiting, and then she’ll lie beside me until I fall asleep.”
They’re the sweetest. “Nancy’s always been a great cook.”
“Hey,” he says, pretending to pop his collar. “I’m not so bad myself.”
I’ve been to his house a few times over the years. He grills out back, but the kitchen always seemed to be Nancy’s domain down to the rooster décor. “Do you cook for her?”
“When I wake up to start getting ready for work, I have enough time to make her dinner. I usually leave a little note for when she gets home.”
Finishing my donut, I ask, “What does it say?”
“I’ll see you in the moonlight.”
That’s about the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. “Does she leave you notes?”
“Yes,” he says, his tone reminiscent of something special he’s experienced. “I’ll see you in my dreams.”
I can only dream of finding someone as special to spend my life with.
While Gil takes a rag to the top of the desk, I look back at the elevator. Maybe it’s that I’m more awake, or that I have food on my stomach, but my mind and heart are clear, giving me a new perspective. “Gil?”
He stops and looks up. “Yeah?”
“Thanks for the chat as always.”
“Always here for you.”
“Too much, in fact,” I joke but also mean it. I start for the elevator, knowing I owe Drew an apology. Now I understand why he was so upset. A lie is a lie, no matter how big or small or the intention behind it. We told each other trust and honesty, and I broke that promise.
I
can’t be mad if he doesn’t forgive me. It will hurt, but I have to give him that right to do what he feels is best for him.
Gil says, “Family is always there when you need them.”
My parents used an unorthodox method of parenting, one that involved leaving me behind. So family isn’t always there, but Gil has been. We don’t tell each other I love you or get into the deep feels for each other, but we know we care without the words. “Good night.”
“Take care.”
The elevator door opens on the seventeenth floor, and I use the distance to his door to go over the things I want to say and try to predict a better outcome than the dread I’m feeling inside.
The night started with me still convincing myself we could be friends. That was a lie I was telling myself. As if I repeated it enough times, I would believe it. The teasing, the fun, and spending time together was already moving us past that stage. The physical attraction was always there, but somewhere along the way, my heartstrings started attaching to his.
I knock, light at first, and then wait. Dread digs its claws in deeper with every passing minute. Not able to stand there and wait, my fears have me knocking louder when he doesn’t answer.
Lowering my hand, I know it’s still early, and I look down the hall at the other door. I don’t have a right to disturb his neighbors just because I screwed up. Leaning against the solid wood door, I say, “Drew? Andrew?” I’m not sure if I have a right to the nickname right now . . . or at all since it’s become personal to him. “Mr. Christiansen?”
What am I doing?
We were making love three hours ago. Even if he is mad, surely, he’ll be okay if I call him by his first name, for Pete’s sake. Knocking lightly, I call, hoping he can hear me through the wood, “Andrew?”
Nothing.
No answer.
No reply.
No acknowledgment at all.
Anger tries to rear its ugly head as the insult of being ignored burns through me. I take a breath, drowning the emotions that make this about me instead of him. I should have told him the truth. He was owed that. I knew it all along. Is cutting me out with such finality my repayment? Now I start to worry about my job come Monday.
