by Isabel Jolie
Dr. Clemmons makes a notation. Four points.
“Why would you lose her?”
“I think it’s becoming difficult for her to be my friend.”
“We can all be difficult at times. What makes you think this?”
“I never want to go out. I always want us to stay in.”
“Can you tell me more about that?”
This is why I hate therapists. They dig and dig. They keep digging until you are broken down crying.
“Jason, is it difficult for you to talk about what’s going on?”
I stare at her straight, shiny, black hair.
“No.” She stares back at me. Fuck. “I just don’t know what to say.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. Bet she’s heard that one before. Come on then, keep digging.
“Well, that’s okay. We can just sit here in silence if you want.”
That, I wasn’t expecting. I blow out frustration, and she smiles, almost amused.
“Jason, some people need the time just to sit and think. Some people need to get it all out in a rush. Some people can’t find the words, so they draw pictures or write it down. At the end of the day, I’m here for you, in whatever way you need.”
I shrug. I don’t know what I need.
“Maybe…” I start to speak but already feel fucking stupid. I don’t want to talk. She raises her eyebrows wanting me to continue. “Maybe the writing…I don’t know.”
“Sure, let’s start there.” She gets up and retrieves a notebook from a shelf, flips through it, then hands it to me.
We sit in silence as I try to write down my feelings, and I realize this was the wrong idea. I write and scribble it out. Write, scribble, write, scribble. I want to ball it all up and chuck it on the floor, but I don’t want to look like a moron. After more minutes tick by, I end up just writing her name.
Maggie.
“Do you think it might be helpful if I give you some questions to answer? As writing prompts? You wouldn’t have to answer anything you didn’t want to.”
I shrug. I can do it if that’s what she wants.
She takes the notebook back from me and sits down at her desk and writes away. Ding ding ding. Many, many points for Jason.
When I get home, I open my laptop to review my notes on the upcoming journal article that’s due soon if I hope to get it published in this academic year. I make essentially no headway. Dean Schlosberger will not be pleased.
Chapter 20
Maggie
“Whatcha doing?” Yara’s shrill question forces me to shift the phone away from my ear. Yara has a tendency to be loud. Right now, she’s in a bar, which serves to increase her volume.
“Not much. I’ll be home soon.”
“You’re bringing juice by Jason’s, aren’t you? It’s Monday. Juice delivery day.”
“For this week. I’ll tell him he needs to start buying it himself.”
“Uh-huh. I’ve heard that one before. Well, Jennifer and I are at The Lounge if you want to stop by after you deliver groceries. If you don’t get sucked into his sofa.” Laughter rings through the phone. Other people near her are laughing at her weak joke. “Love you!”
She can be such a bitch. “Love you too!”
I have absolutely no business bringing juice by Jason’s apartment. But I have for eons. Because I know if I don’t do it, he won’t go out and buy it. And I don’t know how to stop. Because I love him. I ball my hands into tight fists, forcing my nails against my palm to the point of physical discomfort. How am I supposed to stop caring about him?
I twist the key in his apartment door. Maybe I’ll be lucky, and he won’t be home yet. I can drop off the juice in his refrigerator, leave the financial statements he seems obsessed with for him to analyze, and get the hell away. Meet Yara and her new love interest. Observe mutual attraction in play.
“Hey, there you are. I went ahead and ordered from Szechuan Garden.” So much for getting in and out. Monday nights, we tend to do Chinese, so of course, he went ahead and ordered. I’ve been putting space between us, and he hasn’t even noticed. Moving on as if we didn’t just have the biggest fight of our friendship.
I close the refrigerator door and pull out my updated reports. I have it all on an Excel sheet, but my boss gave me strict instructions not to share it with anyone. Somehow, printing them and sharing them feels less like skirting the line. All I need is for him to help me figure out the percentage raised used for operations and the cost to raise $100. Year to date, or the first two quarters. It’s not really that easy to figure out, though. Charitywatch.org rates charities based on this data, only they haven’t yet rated The McLoughlin Charity.
“I went to a therapist.” He takes the papers from me.
“Really?” My eyebrows rise so high I imagine they might be approaching my hairline.
He holds the papers at his waist, looking like the student I used to know, in his jeans and t-shirt. He’s hardly groveling, but the way his shoulders cave forward combined with his dejected expression, I get that he’s trying. He’s waving the white flag.
“Wow. Good. How did it go?”
He shrugs, his go-to non-committal response. “Do you want something to drink? Beer? Wine?”
With drinks in hand, we make our way to his sofa to await our dinner delivery. As I sink onto the cushion, I remember Yara’s comment. I really should get out of here and meet up with Yara. But instead, I tap his wine glass with mine. “So, tell me. The therapist. Was it good?”
“Not much to tell. It was a get-to-know-you session.”
“Are you going to see her again?” I hold my breath.
“Yeah. You want me to.” He’s staring at the carpet. Or maybe the coffee table.
“Jason, you can’t go to therapy because I want you to. You’ve got to go because you want to. Otherwise, you won’t get anything out of it.”
“I don’t want to lose you. If you think I should see a therapist, I’ll do it. You’re not the first person to suggest it.”
I study him, which is easy to do since his gaze is affixed at something far away from me. At least he’s going. Maybe the therapist can make some headway. Help him let go of Adam. It’s obvious he’s never gotten over losing his friend. And he tries to project that on me, always worried I’m still trying to get over him. I loved Adam. I did. But it was thirteen years ago. He was my first love. Unlike Jason, I did see one of Dartmouth’s therapists at the counseling center. Sure, there’s a part of me that misses Adam. A part that yearns for what could have been. It’s painful. A dream so close you can almost touch it, and then it slips away.
In the last ten years, I’ve raised $175,000 for cancer research, so other people don’t lose their loved ones. My nonprofit career centers around fighting cancer, and The McLoughlin Charity has raised tens of millions for research. I’ve found ways to cope. I am strong.
Jason doesn’t sleep well. My friends think he’s depressing. I believe he’s hurting. Still.
After we eat, Jason smiles. “You’re gonna love this. Tonight, The Notebook is playing.”
“You hate that movie.”
“Hate is a strong word. But you like it.” He reaches for my socked foot, pressing right along the ball of my foot. “So, we’ll watch it.”
Holy cow. It’s the little things. The little things Yara doesn’t understand about Jason and me. His foot massages are out of this world, probably better than sex. There are husbands out there who don’t treat their wives as well as Jason treats me.
He’s right in that I do love this movie. I get teary-eyed every time it comes on, at least if I manage to watch the ending. But if he wanted to watch Chicago PD or CSI, I’d be fine with it.
I refill both our wine glasses and settle back onto the sofa. This time our thighs are close, almost touching. He doesn’t notice. But I do.
I lift my feet up under me. Half the sofa is completely unoccupied, we’re sitting so close. He uses handmade soap that I find for him, free of preservatives, dyes, and anything
at all that might be linked to cancer. The science on the whole cause and effect with cancer is sketchy. But I urged him years ago to not take risks. I’ve helped him pick almost every single item in his home, from cleaning products to shampoo, conditioner, and soap, to the food in his refrigerator. One of the benefits of having such an active role in his product selection is I pick items with scents I like.
The soap he’s using right now has rosemary and olive oil in it. The scent is subdued and natural. His V-neck t-shirt reveals his scar. It’s a small scar, less than two inches wide, below his collar bone. When he goes to work, he covers it. I suspect I might be the only person he reveals it to. Not that anyone would flinch. He simply doesn’t want to answer questions. Most people don’t know what that scar means, and they’d ask innocently enough, expecting some story about a skateboarding accident or falling out of a tree as a kid. Or maybe people just don’t think when they ask about the origin of scars.
His hand falls to my thigh. It’s casual. Friendly. He’s watching straight ahead, unaware of what his touch on my thigh does to me. Unaware that I’m not watching the television at all. That I don’t care deeply about Noah and Allison. Unaware that the only reason I cry at the end is that deep down I’m seeing the two of us, after decades together, sharing our love story in a notebook.
I lean into him and rest against his chest. He wraps his arm around me, pulling me close. His focus is on the television. He’s touching me absentmindedly, while I’m hyperaware of every breath, the dim beat of his heart, the sprinkling of auburn hair dusting his forearms, the line of his jaw. The light reflects on the stubble scattered across his jaw and the top of his throat, casting a mixture of copper and chestnut hues. I want to lean in and press my lips to his throat, to nuzzle his day-old growth.
Being relegated to best friend status is its own special kind of hell. The friend zone. A bittersweet holding cell with a lifetime penalty.
The television blares louder with a commercial. He squeezes my thigh. “Do you want some more wine?”
“Sure.”
I push forward to stand at the same time he does, and we face each other, inches apart. When I tilt my head up, he looks down, and our lips are so close. A few inches is all it would take.
He shakes his head with a low, guttural groan, a sound I’m not sure he knows he made, and pushes me down on the sofa.
“I’ll get it. Sit here.”
He brings the bottle back and pours more. We are on the brink of finishing off two bottles tonight. Not unheard of by any means, but unusual for us on a Monday.
My phone buzzes, and I lean over for it.
Yara: David is here. Come out!
“You still seeing David?” Jason’s question is quick, and his tone rings with surprise.
I drop the phone and slide back on the seat, deciding I’ll respond to Yara later. “No. Not since the night you and Yara joined us.”
I set my wine glass down on the coffee table and reach for the throw Jason has crammed on the far end of the sofa. As I’m pulling it over my legs, Jason sets his glass down and pulls me into our favorite sofa position. He lies down flat and aligns my body next to his. There’s nothing better than this. Cocooned on the cushions with his warmth surrounding me.
His hand drifts to my stomach, beneath my sweater, on my exposed skin. His fingers trace the curves of my waist, caressing, transmitting flutters of electricity throughout my torso. I shift my hips back against his in reaction, slow, subtle. I need to hide how turned on I am right now. I don’t want him to think we can’t hang like this, because I love it so much.
He drifts higher, and his fingers touch the wire on my bra. I catch my breath. Does he know? Did he mean to go that high?
I shift my hips again, pressing back on his groin.
He ventures higher, grazing my breast. I freeze. He could be absentmindedly touching me, engrossed in whatever we are watching. He might not even be aware. But it feels so good, so intimate, I don’t want him to stop. If he’s not aware, I don’t want realization to hit.
Then there is the unmistakable warmth of his skin against my bare breast, and his thumb brushes across my nipple. He’s shifted the lace cup of my bra down so he can fondle my breast.
I rotate back to give him better access. His lips fall to mine. I roll onto my back, and he moves so he’s lying between my legs.
The energy shifts and it’s as if someone lit a match and set a timer, telling us we have a limited amount of time before the fire extinguishes.
He unbuttons my jeans as I reach for his. He breaks our kiss long enough to remove my sweater and send it sailing across the room. I reach for his shirt and pull it over his head. Then his mouth is back on mine as we both squirm, pushing our jeans down. When he slides inside and takes me, I gasp. I try to spread wider to wrap my legs around him, but I can’t because my jeans are shoved down, crowded around my ankles, trapping my legs.
And I don’t care at all because right now, the man I love is inside me, filling me, and the experience is astounding. We move together, groaning, and I don’t want it to ever stop. But then his hand drifts between us, and his mouth falls to my nipple, and the combination of his hand and his mouth and the sensation of him filling me is too much, and my toes curl as my muscles contract, milking him. He stills, and I watch as his face contorts as he loses control, his thrusts becoming erratic as he groans and releases within me.
I kiss down the line of his jaw until his lips return to mine, and our tongues dance, slower now. When he pulls out, he grimaces. Then he collapses beside me, as he once again caresses my belly and my breasts. The moment is intimate and in some ways perfect. He places a soft kiss on each of my nipples then slings his feet, tethered together by his jeans, onto the floor.
He stands and pulls the jeans up before heading in the direction of the bathroom.
I might suspect I dreamed the entire episode, except I’m lying naked with my jeans around my ankles and the blanket is now on the floor. Oh, and his cum is leaking out of me. Lovely. I pull my bra cups back over my breasts and sling my feet onto the floor, much the same way he did, and pull my jeans up.
I’m pulling my sweater over my head when he comes out of the bathroom. We face each other. Inside, I’m quaking. Scared about what he might say. Hopeful this is the turning point for us. That he’s going to want more than friendship. That I can have it all with my best friend.
When I study his stance, hunched shoulders, and bowed head, it’s too much. His stoic expression says everything. I step around him. He doesn’t say a word. In his small bathroom, I take in my image in the mirror. My hair has the just-fucked look, not matted but frantic disarray. I run my fingers through my hair to calm it down. My cheeks are flushed, and my eyes have a glassy appearance. I will not cry. I grab some pieces of toilet paper to blot them. I don’t want the telltale sign that I’ve been crying, the swollen red skin on my cheeks. I take my time in the bathroom. When I’ve sufficiently gathered myself, I open the door and head out into the den.
I walk straight to the entry, where my shoes, pocketbook, and coat lie in a heap on the floor. “It’s late. I’m going to head on home.” I keep my voice casual, upbeat. I can’t let him know I’m emotional. If he senses I’m emotional, he won’t let this happen. Maybe I don’t want it to happen anymore. But leaving the door open feels vital.
He’s in the kitchen, rinsing our wine glasses. He glances over his shoulder and calls out, “Be safe. Text me to let me know you got home okay?”
As soon as the door closes behind me, the tears freefall. What the fuck am I doing?
When I get home, I text him that I’m back safe. Then I take a long, scalding shower. I’m such a fucking moron. Maybe…maybe this is just the normal transition of awkwardness, from best friends to something more? Maybe if we do this enough, one day it will become our normal, and without any conversation, we’ll just be more? Or maybe this confirms he’s viewing this as friends with benefits? He definitely didn’t seem to want to cuddle after
ward. Aside from our friendship, what are we doing?
I’m not on the pill, and I told him I’d start it. I dropped it years ago because my lack of love life made it feel like a waste of money and needlessly dumping chemicals into my body. Crap. I will call the gynecologist tomorrow and make an appointment. While we are in the throes of whatever the hell is going on, I should at least take some responsible steps.
I get into bed and pick up my phone to put it on the charger.
Jason: Hey, I’ve been reviewing the financials you sent to me. Things aren’t adding up. And by the way, do you guys actually give any money to research? Or anything? I don’t see it in here. I’ll bring lunch to your office tomorrow, and we can go over this. Text me what you’re in the mood for in the morning. 12:30? I’ll bring your flowers too.
He’s so good about that. He noticed that I love fresh flowers in my office years ago. And he brings fresh flowers by pretty much every week, either on Monday or Tuesday. He’s bought me several different vases. If a vase at the office gets too dirty because it’s hard to clean in the office bathroom sink, he’ll switch it out with a fresh vase and bring the dirty vase home with him to clean. Therese calls him my flower guy.
It is incredibly sweet. He’s incredibly sweet. And that’s why I’m incredibly confused.
Chapter 21
Jason
Maggie sits in the back of the cab, scrolling through email. She’s wearing a form-fitting brown turtleneck, black slacks, and heeled, pointed black boots. She pulled her long brown hair up into a ponytail within minutes of sliding into the back of the cab. She does that throughout the day. Pulls her hair up, then lets it down, then pulls it up, then lets it down.
Sometimes, for the hell of it, I count how many times she does this. If she’s sleeping on the sofa, I count her freckles. Fifty-nine freckles lightly scattered across her cheeks. She currently has thirty-five handbags. That’s a weird one to keep track of, I know. But she buys them in thrift stores and random places and tends to use the same one for months on end until she wants to switch it out. She stores them at the top of her closet, and that’s where I come in. I’ll stand on a step stool and pass her boxes down to rummage through when she’s hunting for a particular one or simply in the mood for a change. I’m a numbers guy. So, of course, I count.
