“Our table, huh?” Jon stood over me, unwrapping a prodigiously long scarf with alternating black and cardinal horizontal stripes and a decidedly unsexy cartoon beaver on the end. His cheeks had a high ruddy flush from the biting Chicago wind, and a stocking hat in the same colors, with another grinning beaver, sat crookedly on his head. Jon pulled off the hat, too, and tossed both it and the scarf on the floor, shrugging out of his poofy parka.
“Nice beaver,” I said.
He slid me a look as he wrestled an arm out of his sleeve, pulling his thermal shirt askew. “I’m not touching that one. Tim.”
“Tim?” I echoed, struggling with the rest of my response, not at all certain if his remark counted as flirting. With this new Jon, I seemed to be off my game. Our old banter had taken on a different edge. I’d have said sexual, if I didn’t know Jon better than that.
“MIT’s mascot—an American animal renowned for both its industry and mechanical skill.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He only gave me a half smile, his hair standing up in an unruly cowlick from the hat. “You can look it up.”
“Not exactly suited to cheers and fight songs.”
“We’re not exactly known for our football games and keggers.”
Good point.
“That’s a really pretty blue you’re wearing,” he said after a moment.
“It’s cerulean—one of my favorites.”
He studied me, unsure. “Is that a real color name or are you messing with me?”
“Absolutely real. But since you’re an engineer, not in fashion, you can say ‘blue.’”
“I can be taught. Now I know to call your eyes cerulean.” His eyes caught and held mine, and I felt myself growing warm for no reason.
The waitress came up just then to take our order. Unsettled by that glimpse of sexual tension, I briefly considered pretending I’d gotten an urgent text and bailing. But Jon was a friend and I could do this. Eat because you’re starving and, if you still want to, claim that work is busy and leave. Then all guilt is erased, you touched back to your past, and you can move on. I went ahead and ordered the croissant. And the beer-cheddar soup, because I deserved it. Hell, I might even order dessert to go. Sugar to get me through the afternoon.
Maybe I’d bring Ice to the party on Friday, tell everyone Kelly and Adelina had talked me into trying women. At least Ice would be fun. Maybe. Hard to say, given her recent funk.
“Hello? Earth to Amy.”
I scowled at Jon. “Nobody says that anymore. And you weren’t even alive in the eighties.”
He shrugged. “Got your attention. And I stream a lot of movies in the lab—they’ve rereleased a whole bunch of the eighties flicks. Good for light-hearted background, though some of them are beyond cheesy.”
“Yeah. We have a Roku and one of my housemates, Julie, is forever digging up obscure rom-coms from that era.”
“Sounds like my kind of girl—is she single?”
Oddly, that stung, though it shouldn’t matter to me. “As a matter of fact. Is that why you asked me to lunch, to scope out my friends?”
“Well, if you’re set on marrying Brad then I have little hope of getting in your pants.”
“Wow.” I threw down my napkin. “You know what? I don’t need this. I’m out of here.” I stood, glad I still had my jacket on, the chair scraping back and tilting precariously.
Jon was up, too, faster than I’d expected, and stopping me with a surprisingly strong grip on my arm. “Don’t go. I’m sorry.”
I looked pointedly at his hand on my arm and he let go. Then raked his hands through his hair and clenched his fists, as if holding on. “I’m really sorry. Really. Just—please… don’t go.”
Glaring at him, undecided, I finally flopped into my chair again when the food arrived. “Only because I’m starving.”
“Everything okay here?” the waitress asked.
“Besides my date being an ass, fantastic,” I replied.
She gave him the side eye. “Too bad. He’s kinda cute, in a nerdy way.”
“Thank you,” Jon replied tersely. “But I’m standing right here.”
She shrugged. “As long as you don’t bother the other customers, you can stand all you like.” Giving me a wink, she sashayed off.
I took a healthy bite of my sandwich and nearly groaned in appreciation. Perfect blend of tart and sweet. And the soup! I nearly wept at the infusion of warmth and creamy, salt-laden fat into my system.
After another moment’s hesitation, Jon sat, then began dressing and assembling his cheeseburger. “I’m really sorry,” he repeated. Adelina would swat him for all the apologies.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, anyway?” I asked, keeping the tone conversational.
He stopped spreading mustard on his brioche bun and put his face in his hands. “I don’t know. I think… I think I’m really angry at you.”
Huh. Go figure. “That explains all the antagonism. All because I didn’t call you back last year?”
I’d maybe asked that too lightly, because he studied me for a long minute, his thoughts opaque behind a smooth poker face and thoughtful brown eyes. I remembered that about him, his steady gentleness. Never seeming angry. Certainly not admitting to it. Really I didn’t remember him being emotional much at all. Looking back at that, it occurred to me that maybe that hadn’t been healthy.
Finally, he laughed—not much of one, more a puff of breath—and resumed smearing the bun with mustard, as if he’d be graded on evenly coating the surface without touching the edges. “I’ve been in therapy,” he said, his words as precise and careful as his actions. “Talk therapy.”
“Ah.” Lately I seemed to be surrounded by psych people. Shrinks and romantically satisfied lesbians—what was the universe trying to tell me? “Because of your dad?”
“He’s part of it. Other stuff, too. You’re not upset?”
I chewed my delicious sandwich and studied him. Taking my time, I swallowed, then sipped my tea. Not as good as my blend, but still tasty. “Upset because you’re being awful to me when I thought you were my friend and I’m having a shitty week and could use one, or because you’re in therapy?”
“Because I said I was angry at you—though the others count, too. Why are you having a shitty week?”
I shrugged and savored my soup. “About you being mad at me—I got drunk, kissed you, totally blanked the memory, then never called when I said I would. I’d be pissed, too.”
He laughed again, that same sound, and shook his head. “Three years of therapy to learn to tell someone out loud that I’m angry at them and you’re fine with it. That’s some fucked up there.”
“Well.” I grinned at him. “We’ve been friends a long time.” When his brown eyes flashed up to mine, full of some dark emotion, I sat back. “Or were,” I amended. “This was clearly a bad idea.”
“Friends,” he muttered, then took a bite of his burger. Figuring him for occupied, I finished my soup and the last of my sandwich, ready for a clean getaway. “I’m not angry because you didn’t call.” When I raised a brow at him, he smiled ruefully and said, “Well, not only because of that. I’ve been angry at you for a long time.”
“Is that part of it, that you have to keep using that specific word?”
The smile turned wry and self-deprecating. “Actually, yes. You wouldn’t believe what it took for me to articulate that simple word.”
“So, this lunch is therapy. Like twelve-steps, only instead of making amends, you tell me how I messed up your life and you get to vent your emotions. After all, ’tis the season.”
“The season is coincidental,” he replied, sounding as hard as I just had.
“Is it? I might not remember last year’s reunion very well, but the longer-term past is crystal clear. Christmas sucked for you as much as it did for me.” He was quiet, turned inward, so I added. “Remember our anti-Christmas parties?”
Now he smiled a little. “Best ones of my
life. I really miss that. Miss you. That was the reason for the anger.” He took a breath and let it out, stared steadily out the window. “You bailed on me. Walked away and never looked back. For a while, I hated you for that.”
“Okay.” I set down my napkin, folding it carefully. Then I dug out a couple of twenties and set them on the table. Too much, but I’d consider it the price of a clean escape. “I accept that. I’m shallow and without loyalty to old friends. There. I’m suitably castigated. Now you can move on with your life.”
“I’ll buy lunch.” His jaw clenched and I’d have thought he sounded dangerous if I didn’t know him so well.
“The least you could do—buy me a meal while you offloaded whatever years of resentment you’ve hoarded? No thanks. I don’t have to sit still for that.”
“It’s not like that!” He fired back. “I want to talk to you. To explain—”
“No.” I stood and grabbed my purse. “You’re not the only one having a shitty life, okay? Lots of people are angry for one reason or another. Join the fucking club, already.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snarled. “You’re perfect. You always are—at least on the surface. Go marry that twatbro and pop out more privileged brats. Screw up your life. See if I care.”
“Wow.” I shook my head. Then picked up my twenties. “Just for that, I am letting you pay for lunch. You think you know me, but you don’t. That girl was long ago and a figment of your imagination even then.”
On that note and full of righteous fury, I strode out of the café.
Goodbye and good riddance.
~ 11 ~
The wind blew bitter in my face, which at least helped clear some of the emotional upset from my head. The afternoon had darkened, clouds gathering in that ominous midwestern heaviness that promised snow. Even the holiday lights and decorations failed to brighten the scene, looking tinny and ragged, without gaiety. The City of Chicago might pony up some funds to freshen the damn things up.
“Fuck my life,” I muttered at a plastic Santa Claus. What a messed-up week. Maybe the universe was punishing me for refusing Brad. Why the hell hadn’t I said yes? Then, if I’d still fainted, it would have been our little joke. I’d have my diamond ring—even if Adelina thought it looked wrong on me—and I’d never have contacted stupid Jon again. I’d forgotten him for a reason, deliberate or not. The past belonged in the past. I could be happily planning my wedding! I wouldn’t be—
“Amy! Goddammit, wait up!”
Jon, yelling from down the block. Determinedly, I acted like I didn’t hear, slipping my ear buds in and telling my phone to play music. I didn’t even care what. But P!nk’s So What filled my ears. Perfect. I walked faster, using all my city skills to edge through the crowd, then crossed illegally through stopped cars just before the light changed and turned into a small park. That should shake him off my trail.
Someone grabbed my shoulder, spinning me, and I lashed out before I thought, punching Jon smack in the eye. He reeled back on his heels, astonished, eye squinched up and springing tears. I ripped out the earbuds, the music still buzzing from them where they hung around my neck.
“What the actual fuck, Jon!”
“You hit me,” he flung back, hand pressed to his eye. “Shit, that hurts.”
I refused to feel bad about it. “It’s what you get for accosting women, you idiot.”
“I wasn’t accosting you. You had those stupid ear things in and didn’t hear me calling you. I was just…”
“What?” I bit out, thumbing off the annoying buzz. “Stalking me. Maybe that’s the phrase you’re looking for.”
He set his jaw. “I wanted to talk to you, so I was trying to slow you down.” He said the words as if it took infinite amounts of patience to explain the simple concept to me.
“You had your chance to talk. I exercised my right to be done listening. You said your piece; you let me know you hate me. That’s enough.”
“I don’t hate you. I—”
“I can’t do this. As I mentioned, I’m having a really shitty week, so I’m going back to work so I’ll at least have my job.” I turned to go.
“Why is it a shitty week?”
“Don’t pretend to care now,” I tossed over my shoulder. Jesus, it was as if we’d gone straight back to high school.
“Why did you call me!” he yelled at my back. Not a question. Almost an accusation.
I kept walking. I had zero time and patience for his shit.
Thudding feet. I spun, fists raised, and he held up ungloved hands in surrender. No stocking cap either, though the scarf fluttered around his neck like he’d escaped from a Dr. Who episode. “Why did you call me?” He asked, more evenly, though he panted a little.
“Because you asked me to.” I spaced out the words, to make them extra rational.
But he shook his head wildly. “No. You could’ve called me last year—and before you say anything, you could’ve called me before that. When I went to put my number in your phone, it was already there. Still there since Wildwood. You lied and said you’d changed phones and lost it, but you hadn’t. Why, Amy?”
I folded my arms, suddenly chilled, by the biting wind and the lost, harsh look in his eye. “I forgot,” I said, willing him to let it go at that.
He stepped closer. “That’s a lie. Tell me the truth. I can take it.”
“Can you?” I waved my hands at the park. “You don’t seem like a guy with stellar emotional control, Jon. I don’t know what you’re going through. Maybe you need support and somehow I’m tied up with whatever you’re trying to process, but I need to take care of myself, too.”
“Just tell me.” He edged closer, calmer now, his eyes full of some emotion. Absurdly I wanted to smooth his hair, fix it like I used to. I’d cut it for him sometimes, back at Wildwood, and he’d let me experiment on him, try out different looks and styles. Funny that I’d forgotten that. Jon searched my face, palms up. “Once we graduated, it was like I ceased to exist for you. You cut me out of your life. Why?”
Old guilt assailed me. I’d just wanted to be done with the old Amy. On to my new life, where no one thought of me as I’d been. Jon always knew too much about me and I couldn’t stand to see myself reflected in his eyes.
“Jon,” I said, and paused. I had no idea what to say.
“Just tell me,” he repeated.
“It wasn’t you, it—”
“Don’t even with that line,” he interrupted. “The truth. Last Christmas, you were like the Amy I remembered. We talked old times and you were my friend again. And when we kissed—you kissed me, not the other way around—it was amazing. It was like—”
“I was drunk,” I cut him off coldly. “That wasn’t the old me. That was addled me. I’m not that girl you used to know. I’m better.”
“Is that right?” he asked, softly, and that odd frisson of danger ran through me. Though I wasn’t afraid of him. Something else had me on edge, some deep anxiety making me want to flee.
“Yes,” I managed, feeling unsteady. I stepped back and my heel hit something. Unbalanced, I reached behind me, finding the solidity of one of the massive oak trees. Looking up into it, I found myself under the spreading branches, festooned with white lights, sparkling against the darkening sky. The gray fuzzed, and fat snowflakes began to fall, spiraling down to touch my cheeks in a burst of chill. The sight soothed me. So lovely. Like Christmas ought to be, though it never seems to turn out that way.
“Amy.” Jon touched my cheek and I lowered my gaze to meet his. Much too close. And it reminded me, soft and misty as the snowfall, of that other night in the gazebo. Sometime in the ensuing years, Jon had grown taller, edging over me even in my heels. “Amy,” he said slowly. “Can I kiss you?”
“That is so not a good idea,” I said, almost without sound. I was shaking and it came out in my voice.
“One kiss,” he murmured, leaning in slowly, watching my face. “A second kiss, I mean, to prove a point.”
�
�What point?” Snowflakes fell on his hair, lighting there unmelted, like exotic birds.
“All well-designed experiments require verification,” he replied seriously. “Getting a result once doesn’t count for anything.”
“Especially if one person doesn’t remember.” I laughed shakily. My heart had started pounding and I was shivering, maybe not entirely from the cold.
Unexpectedly, he smiled, pleasure in it. “Especially then. But a single result does give the promise that you’re headed in the right direction.”
“Does it? I don’t think I know what the right direction is.” Maybe I never had. I’d thought Brad was the right direction, and then I’d turned him down. Walked away from my dream.
“Let me remind you.” His mouth hovered a whisper from mine. “And if you don’t like it, you can forget again. Pretend it never happened. Okay?”
Giddy, terribly unsure, I suddenly wanted that kiss more than anything. “Okay.”
~ 12 ~
I’d expected gentle. Tentative and studied. A barely there kiss from nerdy Jon who asked permission.
But no.
His mouth seared mine, hot and ravenous, his hands in my hair, holding my head as he kissed me with thorough ferocity.
And memory flooded back.
Just like this, me leaning against a tree, champagne bottle in my hand, giggling and teasing him. We’d been talking about something and he’d gotten all serious, saying … things. Confessing how he felt about me, had always felt. I’d laughed, saying we’d never even kissed, and he’d dared me to try, and then…
Oh, I had. And he’d returned it with interest, kissed me just like this. Consuming, with greedy intensity. Like then, I melted into it, a snowflake losing structure on meeting warm skin. His long body pressed against me, pinning me against the tree, and I hung there, loose and languid, absorbing the moment. Letting myself feel.
For once I wasn’t driving the train. I hadn’t planned this, hadn’t even had an inkling it might happen. And it had spun out as perfect as any fairytale. Snowflakes fell around us in dreamy wonder, the fading afternoon a frame for the sparkling lights, the scent of roasting nuts from a street vendor meshing with the sound of carols in the air from somewhere. Angels on high, singing Gloria in unearthly harmonies.
Missed Connections Box Set Page 32
