“You own this place?” I tried hard not to sound completely incredulous, but clearly didn’t succeed, as Jon gave me a wry look.
“Go figure, huh? Yeah, so…” He stared into his wine. “So, my mom died about three years ago and you know how she worked all those jobs all those years, scrimping for every dollar?”
I nodded, having closed my mouth on the sympathies I’d started to offer as he’d talked right past at full speed.
“Turned out she had all this money squirreled away, in about twenty different bank accounts—even a safety deposit box full of cash. Who knew?”
I met his sad eyes, seeing the profound betrayal in there. Jon had had it way worse than I ever had as a kid, eating most meals on the school lunch program to merciless teasing, living in a series of crappy apartments in bad neighborhoods. At least my family had managed an outwardly suburban life with regular meals, if not much else.
“She was saving it,” I said. Then felt inane, because obviously, but he nodded.
“Right? Hoarding it all for some rainy day that never came. Ignoring the torrential downpour our lives already were.”
“I’m really sorry, Jon.” That counted as sympathy, not an apology, right?
He shrugged that off. Drank some of his wine and looked around again. “I didn’t want to repeat those same mistakes, keep all that money in the bank like she did. My therapist says to do the opposite of my impulses if I don’t want to be like my parents, so I spent the money. Which was bizarrely hard to make myself do. So I tried to spend it wisely, invest it for good returns.” His gaze swung to me, fastened on mine with that intent purpose. “That’s another way I’m different now.”
I managed a slight nod. Jon wasn’t at all the person he’d once been. I’d been looking right at him and hadn’t seen that. “That’s why you went into therapy—after your mom died?”
“Yeah, issues: I has them.” He produced a crooked smile. “Nearly flunked out of MIT—had a pretty spectacular meltdown—so they hustled me to the campus counselor. To my vast surprise, it actually helped.” He gave me a wry look and I grimaced in sympathy for all those years of ineffective social worker advice he’d received. “So, I continued on my own from there. You know, another way of investing that money for good returns. I hope.”
“I’m sorry about your mom. I didn’t know.”
“How could you?” His gaze roved over my face. “I tried to call you, though.”
“You did?”
“At Northwestern. But you were living off campus, and they wouldn’t give out your phone number or address. I even tried to look you up on Facebook.”
“You did?” I repeated, stunned.
He smiled crookedly. “Great lengths for me. Do you have any idea how many Amy Taylors there are on that thing?”
“A lot,” I said weakly. “But you can tell by the photo. My avatar is actually me.”
“I should have kept looking. The whole thing just rubbed me wrong. And you always go to the holiday reunion—I figured I’d see you there.”
“But then you never said anything.”
“Yeah, well.” He grimaced. “The ‘oh hey, did I mention my mom died of a sudden stroke’ doesn’t flow well after the ‘Merry Christmas, how the hell are you, and why haven’t you bothered to keep in touch?’”
“Oh Jon.” Tears pricked my eyes and I suddenly felt fully and completely like a total dick. I’d ghosted him, for no good reason other than my own stupid issues, which I didn’t even understand.
“No, no—shit, I didn’t mean for the evening to go this way. Don’t cry. Not for my sake.”
“I’m not.” I didn’t want to say that the tears were for my own misery. I thought I’d come so far, but I didn’t understand myself at all. I’d let Jon down. Publicly refused and humiliated Brad. Something must be deeply and utterly wrong with me. I rubbed the tears away, as they’d solve nothing. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I should have been.”
He reached out and touched my cheek. “You’re here now. That means everything.”
~ 14 ~
It didn’t though. My being there didn’t mean anything. Or rather, I didn’t know what it meant or how I felt. This was all going so fast that my head spun with it, but I wasn’t going to be more of a crap friend to him than I’d already been. I couldn’t smack him down, but it would be worse to lead him on, wouldn’t it?
So I did what I seemed to do best—and avoided the issue. I leaned out of his touch by raising my wineglass and drinking. “Where’s your closet?” I asked with a sunny smile, hoping to break the tension. “I’d better get to work before I have much more wine.”
“You think it’s going to be that bad? No, wait—don’t answer that. Bedroom is in there. I’ll put the finishing touches on dinner.”
Carrying my wine with me—and frankly grateful for the reprieve of a few minutes alone to reorder my thoughts—I made my way down the short hall to the master bedroom. There was a second bedroom on the way, which Jon used as an office from what I could make out from the glow of the computer monitor. Him and his surveillance camera. A selective Luddite, then—though I supposed he could hardly work in a scientific field and not be tech savvy.
Jon’s bedroom was like the rest of the place—warm, sparely decorated, but in excellent taste, with a big inviting bed. The steamy scent of the radiator under the window reminded me of cold winter mornings at Wildwood—and heated the room enough for me to take off my sweater and toss it on the bed. Curtains framed the window, which looked out on the city skyline, fogging now with more snowfall. Matching reading lamps sat on pretty tables on either side of the spacious bed, the warm light gleaming off the chocolate and bronze striped duvet. An odd fantasy of lazy Sunday mornings reading the newspaper and drinking coffee in bed with Jon popped into my head.
Wow. I needed to get a grip. Swallowing the rest of my wine, I set the glass on the bedside table and resolutely opened the closet door. Then fumbled around for the string pull that lit the single overhead bulb. This had not been renovated. A narrow cave of a space, the closet hearkened back to the bad old days when builders barely included them in the planning. In fact—I popped my head out to check—yes, the closet and en suite bathroom had been added later, carved out from one end of the bedroom. Not how I would have done it. Really, for a small place you didn’t need a bathroom in the master. You could ditch this one, make the closet a decent walk-in, and still give some space to the hallway bathroom, making it into—Stop it.
First fantasies of Sunday mornings in bed, then I’m remodeling his condo. Just like with Brad. It was like I had a disease.
Fortunately—or not, depending on one’s goals—the contents of the closet were enough to shatter any woman’s romantic fantasies. Here lived the Jon I’d known. Old jeans stacked on the floor. A haphazard pile of shoes, mostly versions of sneakers that should have been donated or, ideally, relegated to the rubbish bin long since. Shirts hung off hangers, button-downs mixing with t-shirts sporting obscure science jokes, some I remembered from Wildwood.
I popped my head out of the closet and yelled down the hallway. “I’m definitely going to need more wine.”
Jon appeared, bottle in hand, and refilled my glass, setting the bottle next to it and giving the closet a chagrined look. “It is that bad.”
“I can’t believe you still have clothes from high school.” I brandished a black shirt with holes in the armpits that said in white lettering MAY THE MxA BE WITH YOU. “Do you even fit into this one anymore? Don’t answer that. No, you don’t, or you wouldn’t be ripping out the arms.”
“Hey, that’s a classic joke.” He took it from me, giving it a fond look.
“So put it in a museum.”
“Oh, come on. Everyone has stuff from high school. We’re not that old yet.”
“I don’t.”
He narrowed his eyes, studying me. “Liar.”
“Nope. I practice a lot of purging. Anything I haven’t worn in a year goes. The only clothes
I carry over from one season to another are the classic pieces I invest in, the ones that transcend fad and are always in style. And, I should point out, you promised to throw things away if I told you to.”
“You’re right. It’s gone.” He tossed the t-shirt on the bed and moved toward me. “You are so damn sexy.”
“What—why?” But I couldn’t make myself duck him when he set his hands on my waist, leaning me back against the closet door.
“You’re so disciplined about stuff in a way I’m not. And your passion makes even me interested in investing in classic pieces that transcend fad. How do you do that?”
“I have no idea,” I managed, fumbling for the right reaction. New Jon had a knack for flustering me.
He slid his hands up my ribs and down again, spreading his thumbs against my belly, the heat burning through the silk. “I bet you could wear the same clothes from back then. You’re no bigger than you were in high school.”
“That’s so not true,” I said, but I’d gone breathless. I put my hands on his wrists, ready to push him away. I didn’t quite finish the intention, but he obliged by taking my hands and lacing our fingers together.
“I don’t know about that,” he murmured, stretching my hands over my head and leaning his body against mine. “You never let me touch you back then, so I don’t have a visceral comparison—only visual. But you look the same. The same but more beautiful.” He kissed me softly, with a sweetness that soughed through me warm as spring sunshine. “More polished.” He deepened the kiss, his tongue caressing mine and making me melt. “More you.”
I moaned a little without meaning to, my nipples peaking with the rush of desire, and Jon made a sound of agreement. Releasing my hands, he slid his fingers over the silk long sleeves of my blouse, tracing the lines beneath, then down and over my breasts, cupping them like something precious as he kissed me again. More. I dropped my hands to his neck, finding the hot skin there, and indulging in digging my fingers into the dark springing thickness of his hair.
Losing myself in the kiss, in the sure touch that seemed to know me on some deep level, I barely registered that he’d unbuttoned my blouse, that he’d found his way beneath my bra and had his hot, clever fingers on my naked breasts. Not until he broke the kiss to walk me back toward the bed and I opened my eyes, remembering where I was.
And with whom.
“Whoa—wait a minute,” I said.
He lifted his head, eyes sleepy and pleased with dreamy lust. “What’s wrong? I have condoms.”
So did I for that matter—ones I’d carried in my bag to use with Brad, the guy I’d been sleeping with and planning to marry only a week ago—and I needed to stick to the Rules. They would be my guide, and Jon didn’t have enough points for sex. Full stop. Not that I’d try to explain that. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“Why not? You want it as much as I do.” He feathered his thumbs over my nipples and my eyelids fluttered down of their own accord, the pleasure of his touch so penetrating and somehow drugging.
“Jon.” I struggled to keep a clear head. “We’ve been friends for a really long time.”
“That’s true.” He stared at me intently. “A good thing, as all the best relationships are based on friendship first.”
“We’re not having a relationship.”
He only smiled, almost gently. “Amy—you’re half naked in my bedroom. This is more than friendship. And you should know this has never been only friendship for me. I’ve tried to tell you that I—”
I pushed his hands off me and covered my breasts. I needed to have a clear head, to think. “Well, it always was only friendship for me and this is going too fast. I’m here because you asked me to help you pick out clothes for Friday,” I fixed my bra and began buttoning up my blouse again. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Okay.” He held up his hands in that easy gesture of surrender. “The last thing I want to do is push you away again.”
I picked up my wine, not caring that I really wanted its numbing effect. Then made myself look at him. “Is that what you think happened?”
“I know it did.” He smiled a little. “Don’t forget I know you, Amy. You get pushed off balance at all and you shut down, closing everyone out. The blast shields clanging into place.” He mimed it, hands in front of his face, one lowering and one lifting as he made churning sci-fi effects noises, ending with a bang of finality. And making me laugh.
He dropped his hands, then put his hands on my shoulders, turning me to face the closet. “No avoiding the Closet of Doom. Get to work and come out when you’re ready.”
Jon left the room, and I set my glass aside and dug into the task. After a while, I realized he’d given me exactly what I needed.
~ 15 ~
“Is there hope?” Jon asked, lifting his head when I came into the kitchen. He was sitting at the counter, mechanical pencil in hand, the pad of paper in front of him filled with indecipherable equations.
I peered at them. Upside-down they made even less sense. “For the future of nuclear fusion, when calculations are done with pencil and paper? I’m thinking unlikely.”
“Well, we check all the equations through the computer, but working on paper helps me think. Always has.” He studied the page, as if just seeing what he’d written, and frowned slightly. An old memory hit me of him working differential equations on long pads of paper, sitting sideways on my narrow bed with his back against the wall, one knee drawn up and the other long leg dangling off the edge. And his hair would be standing up from his tugging at it. Abruptly his gaze flashed up and caught mine, as if he’d read the thought. He caught my sleeve, making me realize I’d flinched back reflexively. “I meant for something decent for me to wear, so I won’t put you to shame.”
The strong phrasing took me aback. I wanted to argue that I wouldn’t be ashamed of him, but I decided we’d had enough heavy conversation for one night. “I found something that will work. It’s hanging up at the front of your closet.”
“Thank God. And for me?” He still had my blouse sleeve, holding my gaze in a similarly intent grip.
“For you?” My mouth had gone oddly dry.
“Is there hope for me with you? It occurs to me that I might’ve pushed too hard and blown it already.”
“That depends on how good dinner is,” I said, giving him a light smile and pulling my sleeve away.
“Aha. You might have informed me of the importance of that particular peer review before I kept it warm for two hours while you had your way with my closet.”
Had it been that long? The glowing clock on the stove verified it. Guess I’d gotten absorbed. “There’s two piles for you to deal with—one for donation and one for the landfill, may our descendants forgive us. I’d better not see any of that stuff back in the closet.”
H tossed me a grin as he headed into the kitchen. “I’ll obey your edict, oh Goddess of Purgery, as that means you plan to be back here at some point.”
I leaned against the counter, picking up the mechanical pencil he’d discarded and toying with it, watching him move around the kitchen with deft familiarity. He hadn’t been exaggerating about his kitchen skills. “Gas oven, huh?” I observed.
“Nothing like cooking with gas,” he agreed, taking big ceramic bowls out of the warming drawer, setting them on the stovetop, then filling them with a thick stew from a big casserole. He handed the bowls to me, then opened a chrome-front dishwasher and pulled out a couple smaller plates.
“Can you get those? I thought we’d eat at the table. Salad is out there. I’m just grabbing the bread and will be right behind you.”
Dinner turned out to be beef bourguignon and was delicious, especially with the crusty French bread dipped in to soak up the juices. Jon looked boyishly pleased by my praise, so I ignored the candles he’d lit and the soft lighting. It all complimented the glow of the Christmas tree and the cozy fire, so it worked for me. Exactly the kind of ambience I might have planned for a romantic holiday meal.
“You used to work on paper,” he said, after we’d eaten in silence for a while.
“The big sketch pads,” I agreed. “I still do. And I like to cut out patterns with paper, too. For all that fashion design is about the surface appearance, it’s the substance that matters. The fabric you use, how it falls and flows, how it fits the body, how it connects together.”
“That makes sense. But I meant that little notebook you used to carry. You’d sketch the other girls’ outfits in class when you were bored.”
I flushed a little, that he’d remember that. “Yeah, well…”
He reached over the table and took my hand. “Well, what? That’s a good memory for me. One of the first things I noticed about you.”
“Not for me.” I shook off his hand to reach for my wine. “I was so… so fucking jealous of those outfits, the designer clothes, all the things the other girls wore. By drawing them I felt like I could… I don’t know.”
“Make them your own?” He nodded seriously at me. “I remember that feeling, too. Like, by just being at Wildwood, I could somehow change colors like a chameleon and blend in. Become something better. Or at least look like everyone else.”
“I didn’t know you felt that way. You were always so staunch about being yourself, telling me to be myself and not worry about them.”
“Not always. Not at first, for sure. But by the end of my time there, I’d figured out that not only couldn’t I become them, but that there was nothing wrong with who I was.”
“Says the man who’s spent three years in therapy.”
His brown eyes stared into mine. “Allow me to rephrase. There was nothing wrong with me that pretending to be someone else would fix.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again, breaking what had started to feel like a stare down. “Is that how you see me—as someone who’s pretending to be someone she’s not?”
From the edge of my vision, I could see him picking around the pearl onions, spearing small bits of remaining meat, selecting them with as much care as he must be his next words. Suddenly I was sorry I’d asked the question—and certain I didn’t want to hear the answer.
Missed Connections Box Set Page 34
