Thirty Days: Part Two (A SwipeDate Novella)

by BT Urruela

  I put a hand up. “Wait, wait, wait. Tell me you had his dick in your mouth still, as you’re contemplating this.”

  “For about a second or two longer before the smell kicked in.”

  “Oh my fuck, what the hell did you do?”

  “Don’t judge me,” she says, pointing a finger at me with a squinted eye.

  I put three fingers up. “Scout’s honor.”

  “I was eighteen years old, and a bit of a bitch back then. I broke up with his ass on the spot and kicked him out.”

  “I don’t blame you one bit,” I say, shrugging, and laughing again. “Not quite sure what I’d do in that situation. I’d never look at the person the same way again.”

  “I was mortified.”

  “Well shit. That’s about the worst real life sex fail I’ve ever heard.”

  “Have you fallen asleep in any other vaginas?” she asks, before cracking up.

  “No ma’am. That would be a first for me. And God, I hope my last.”

  “You must have worse stories than that,” she says.

  I hesitate a moment before admitting the truth. “I’ve honestly not experienced much outside of the norm. I mean, three different relationships and we had our fair share of experiences, but luckily no bowel episodes,” I say, laughing.

  “Lucky you.” Megan grins, motioning to the bartender. “Two shots of Woodford, please.” She shoots me a devilish look as she orders and my gut churns in response.

  “You trying to kill me?”

  “Nah,” she says, brushing me off with a facetious look in her eyes. “Just trying to put a little hair on your chest.”

  “Hey now,” I respond and she bursts out laughing.

  “Oh, you can handle it.”

  “Fine, but just one tonight, please. I don’t need another hangover like I had the last time we hung out.”

  “You’re telling me,” she says as the bartender places two filled shot glasses in front of us. “And I had to work a twelve hour shift that day.”

  I shake my head, grabbing the shot glass as she retrieves her own.

  “I do not envy you one bit. Respect the hell of you and what you do. But no envy here.”

  She lifts her shot with a shrug.

  “To being without envy.”

  “And to nurses, the unsung heroes,” I add, clinking my glass against hers.

  We down the shots and through a slight grimace, which pleases me to see, she says, “Why thank you.”

  “No, thank you. It’s the truth. Cops, teachers, and nurses…some of the toughest jobs out there with the least amount of glory.”

  “Well, it’s not about the glory.”

  “No, no, I know that. I’m just saying, we could cut you all a bit more slack, and a higher salary wouldn’t be so out of the question.”

  “Especially for teachers and cops,” she adds, and I nod.

  “Yeah, Gramps was a cop. Some of the stories he used to share…” I shake my head. “Just crazy what they go through. And then compared to what they get paid. Makes me a little ashamed to think I bitch about a career I can do anytime, anywhere, so often.”

  She shrugs. “We all bitch, right? It’s human nature.”

  “I try and keep my bitching to a minimum, but it can seep out here and there. If only I wrote as much as I internally bitch. I’d have a library of releases.” I laugh before taking a swig of my beer.

  The chime of my cell phone pulls my attention as the bartender approaches with our flatbreads. I immediately think of Sami, hoping the message is from her without even realizing it. When I pull up the screen, I see it’s not her, but my ex. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach.

  Joanne: Hey…I know it’s been a long time. I’ve wanted to reach out, I just didn’t know how to. I didn’t know what to say. I’ve been thinking about you though. Maybe lunch soon?

  I grip the phone in my hand for a moment, staring blankly at the screen, when Megan asks, “Everything okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  Looking up, I pocket my cell phone and smile.

  “Yeah, everything’s fine. Sorry, I hate when people use phones on dates. Just habit.”

  “You’re okay.” She gestures to the flatbread in front of her. “I’ve got good company.”

  There’s light chit-chat between us over the thirty minutes or so as we devour our flatbreads, trying slices of each other’s, but my mind hasn’t been in the conversation. Not when my cell is burning a hole through my pocket. I have an itch to pull it out and respond to Joanne, but don’t want to be rude. And I’m also not too sure it’s the best idea to involve her in my life again. But fuck, it’s Joanne. What the hell else am I to do?

  I excuse myself to the restroom as the bartender boxes the remaining slices and tops off our beers.

  Pulling up my phone, I shoulder the bathroom door open and begin to type, but nothing comes out. I don’t know what to say. I want to meet up with her, God knows why, but I also know it won’t be good for me. I’ve spent so long trying to forget her, trying to move on…seeing her again could unravel it all. How do I not pull at that thread, though? It’s been months since I last heard from her, and that conversation was anything but cordial. I’ve sent texts to her since then with no response. Now, here I am, with the text I’ve been thinking about for months, and I can’t formulate a response.

  Wow, surprised to be hearing from you. Why lunch? Why now? I text, taking a few moments before hitting send, my heart clamoring in my chest.

  My phone chimes.

  Joanne: It’s been a tough week. It’d be nice to see a familiar face.

  Me: I’ve texted you how many times over the last few months. You haven’t once bothered to text me back. Why now, Joanne?

  Joanne: Because I miss you. That’s why.

  I freeze, my heart rate picking up and my palms starting to sweat. It feels good to see her text that. As much as I don’t want it to be.

  Lunch. When and where? I text, before reluctantly pocketing my phone and making my way out of the bathroom, so Megan doesn’t start wondering. She’s halfway through her fresh beer and playing on her phone when I return to the bar.

  “Welcome back,” she says, smiling. “I thought you may have fallen in.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t that long, was it?”

  “I don’t know. Try your beer. Is it warm?”

  I take a sip. “A little,” I say, shrugging with a touch of a grin on my lips.

  “Ha! Told you,” she says, nudging me with her elbow.

  “Hey, if I concede a win to you, you aren’t allowed to throw an ‘I told you so’ right back at me. That’s not fair. C’mon now.” I laugh, drinking my beer and pushing past the bitter warmth.

  “Yeah, yeah…so damn needy,” she responds, finishing off her brew and sliding it away from her. “I already paid, by the way.”

  “No, you didn’t!” I scan around her for the bill and it’s nowhere to be seen. “You little shit, I wanted to get it.”

  “You got the last one. Don’t worry about it. Just make it up to me by not falling asleep on me tonight,” she says with a sly little smile.

  A wave of heat trails up my spine as my thoughts roam to Sami. My dick couldn’t be more thrilled by her proposition, but my mind is a mess. I know that nothing good can come from this. Christ, I had every intention of letting her know tonight that I had met someone else, and now here I am, going through an inner battle between my mind and my dick. If I were a weaker man, the battle would have been short-lived, and my loft would be the next destination. I hope I don’t regret this decision.

  “Honestly, if you did come over tonight, it probably would happen. I’m crazy tired.”

  “Oh,” she says, her eyes trailing away from me. “Okay, no problem. Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have invited myself.”

  “No, no, no, you’re totally fine. I’m just—I haven’t slept real well lately. I should probably try and get a full night’s sleep,” I lie. I’ve been functioning on no sleep my whole damn l
ife.

  “Maybe next time,” she says, shrugging, and smiling faintly.

  “Definitely.”

  We stand, and I allow her to pass first before we make our way outside. She stands in front of me, her hands dipped into her pockets, and a look on her face that tells me she may be expecting a kiss. I oblige when we embrace; just a small peck because, hell, I don’t know what else to say at this point. I know I need to say something to her, but tonight? Tonight, it’ll have to wait.

  After an awkward goodbye, I retrieve my phone from my pocket and pull up Joanne’s text.

  Joanne: Where else? Elmo for brunch. Say eleven.

  I sigh heavily upon reading the name, as it was our most frequently visited spot back in our heyday. I was hoping to never see the place again. I reluctantly text back, yeah, that’s cool. I’ll see you there, before waving down the first speeding taxi I see with the vacancy light on.

  The lead-up to my lunch with Joanne is more nerve-wracking than the past fourteen first dates combined. My palms are sweating and heart is thumping as I make my way to Elmo, her choice, and our old spot, which makes this that much more of a mind fuck. I can only imagine she broke up with the guy she fucked me over for, or they’re fighting or whatever, and she needs a bit of nostalgia to make her feel better. I don’t like it, but I can’t help but meet up with her. Just to see.

  She’s already in the booth when I enter the restaurant, and seeing her again after so long stops me a bit in my tracks. She’s beautiful, always has been, though the makeup caked on her face has always been a turn off. I see nothing’s changed in that department, but it doesn’t stop the flutter in my heart when I catch her blonde hair and blue eyes shimmering in the sun shining through the window.

  “Hey,” I say as I approach.

  She slips from the booth, and against my inner desire not to hug her for the sake of my heart, she wraps her arms around my neck for a hug. She’s short, so she has to get on her tiptoes to reach, and it makes me smile as it always had, back when we were together.

  “Hey. It’s great to see you,” she says, letting go and reading my face a little before taking a seat again, as I sit across from her. “You look good. Different.”

  “Thank you! I’m not too bad. How about yourself?”

  “I’m okay.” She shrugs, her eyes scanning the linoleum table top.

  “What’s up?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

  “Ugh, just stupid stuff. Nothing we need to talk about.”

  “Issues with the dude?” I raise an eyebrow and she looks up, shock coloring her face. “It’s okay. I’m past it.”

  She slips her bottom lip between her teeth and shrugs again. “Just doesn’t feel right to talk about it. Considering…everything.”

  I smirk, my eyes trailing to the incoming waitress and the pitcher of water in her hands, thankful for the brief timeout. The tightness in my throat is burdening.

  The waitress greets us, filling our waters, and as I watch Joanne watching her glass, I internally laugh because I know what’s coming.

  “Um, can I get a water with light ice, please?”

  The waitress nods, taking her filled glass and the pitcher back to the drink station with her.

  “Why do you always let them fill it before you tell them?”

  “She should have asked if I wanted water.”

  “Every restaurant gives water first.”

  “Yeah, Gavin, but we’re in New York City. Lots of Europeans. They don’t like ice in their water. Servers should check first.”

  I look around the diner with a smirk on my face.

  “I don’t think Elmo really caters to Europeans. And light ice is dumb. It ends up melting before you even take a drink anyway.”

  “I like what I like,” she responds and I just smile.

  “Some things never change,” I chide, and she rolls her eyes.

  “You mean, like you always giving me shit for my preferences.”

  “You know me. Shit-giver extraordinaire.” I give her an exaggerated grin and she rolls her eyes again, shaking her head, but a faint smile appears on her face.

  “Oh, how I’ve missed it,” she says blandly, followed by a light giggle.

  The waitress returns with Joanne’s water and asks, “Are you all ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes?”

  “Oh, I don’t need to look at the menu. I’ll have the Smoked Salmon Benedict. And a coffee and Baileys.”

  The waitress jots down my order and then looks to Joanne, who traces a finger down the paper menu.

  Without looking up, she says, “I think I’ll do breakfast too. Can I get the Denver Scramble, but no peppers or sausage, and can you sauté the onions a little longer than usual?” She looks up from the menu. “And can you make sure they don’t put any salt or pepper on that. Do they add salt and pepper?”

  “Yes, they do. I’ll make note not to add any,” the waitress says with a smile. “Will that be all?”

  “Can you make sure they cook the eggs all the way through? They mess it up every time I come here,” Joanne adds, and the waitress nods.

  “No problem at all. I’ll get that in for you,” she says before departing.

  “You always get the Denver Scramble and take out everything that makes it a Denver Scramble. You do know that, right?”

  “Yes, you’ve told me this before, but I like the onions in it.”

  “You could just add onions to the normal scramble.”

  “Shut up,” she responds and it makes me laugh.

  “So, how have you been, Joanne? Other than ordering the same ridiculous way. And why the abrupt text. It’s been what, three months?”

  “Something like that,” she replies with a little shrug. “I don’t know. Just wanted to see a familiar face. Work has been shit, and then the asshole and all his pleasantness.”

  “You still at Nordstrom?”

  “Yeah, still there. Still selling Louboutins to bitches with too much money on their hands.”

  “You hate that job. Why are you still doing it?”

  “Haven’t found anything else,” she responds, and I laugh, knowing she hasn’t found anything else because she hasn’t looked for anything else. “And I get the discount, remember.”

  “Oh, I certainly remember. I shared a closet with you once, you know,” I say, still laughing.

  “Yeah, well, it’s not much better these days. And now that I’ll have a walk-in to myself again, it’ll probably get uglier.”

  “Ah, so he’s moving out and all that, huh? Must be serious this time.”

  “It is. This is officially it. I’m done with him.”

  “Eh, fuck it. He had a weird face anyway.”

  “What do you mean, a weird face?”

  “I don’t know. He always had this, like, pinched, impatient look to him. Like he always had to take a shit.” I laugh abruptly, but she doesn’t find it as funny.

  “He so did not.”

  “Agree to disagree?” I ask. “You’re talking to your ex here. You know, the one you left for this guy. How about letting me have this one?”

  She crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she mutters as the waitress brings my much-needed cup of coffee and Baileys.

  “Your food will be right up,” she says, placing the mug before me.

  “Thank you,” I reply, nodding and cradling the warm mug.

  “You and your Baileys,” Joanne says, a little look of condescension on her face. “Are you still drinking like you used to?”

  “I have my days,” I respond, my thoughts trailing to the mess I was with her. I hid my addiction under the guise of just being a ‘partier’ for the longest time, until the facade wore off. When it did, and she saw the ugliness addiction brings, it was only a matter of time before it all started to unravel. I’ve never blamed her for leaving. In fact, I likely needed it to give me the appropriate kick in the ass to seek help. I only blame her for the way in which she did it.

  “Gavin!” />
  “Joanne!”

  “Why are you still drinking like this?”

  “Like what? It’s a little Baileys. I don’t drink near what I did when we were together. I’ve found other ways to rid myself of the stress and anxiety, but I’m not going to rid myself of it entirely. That’s just inhumane.”

  She rolls her eyes, scoffing as our hot plates of food are placed in front of us.

  “Enjoy!” The waitress says, pulling condiments from her apron and setting them on the table as well before she turns on her heel.

  Before she can make it far, Joanne takes a bite of her eggs and a look of displeasure spreads across her face. She puts a finger up, her agitated eyes shooting toward the departing waitress.

  “Excuse me,” she calls out loudly, garnering a few stares from our fellow patrons. The waitress turns and comes back, painting the smile back on.

  “Is there something wrong?” she asks, still smiling through the curled lip and piercing eyes Joanne now carries.

  “Yes, there is,” she responds, forking her eggs a little. “These eggs aren’t cooked enough.”

  I look at her eggs, which seem fine to me, and roll my eyes.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll have them cook it a little longer for you.”

  “In the microwave?” Joanne asks as the waitress collects up her plate.

  “Uh, um, well, would you like it done differently?”

  “Yes, you could have them put it back in the pan for a bit.”

  “Yes, ma’am. No problem,” the waitress says, letting out a heavy sigh as she shuffles away with the plated eggs.

  “Bitch,” Joanne mutters with a sneer.

  “Do you ever think about how much spit you’ve likely ingested in your lifetime?”

  “What? No way. They don’t do that.”

  I arch an eyebrow and scoff.

  “I worked restaurants all through high school. I promise you, they do.”

  “I’ll sue their asses.”

  “You’d never know.”

  An uneasy look takes up her face and she swallows hard.

  “I don’t believe it,” she finally says.

  “That’s probably in your best interest,” I respond, which earns me a heavy eyeroll.