Full Package

by Lauren Blakely

  I concentrate on the task of washing her hair. Once she’s all lathered up, I tip her head back and rinse out the shampoo. When her hair is sleek as a seal’s, she raises her head out of the stream.

  “There,” I say, and she opens her eyes and loops her arms around my neck.

  She lifts her chin and says a soft, “Thank you.”

  “Anytime,” I say, trying to keep it light, since I feel anything but.

  She runs her finger over my top lip as the hot water beats down. “Did you know I’m on the pill?”

  All the air rushes from my lungs. I nod. “I did know that.”

  That’s the thing about sharing a bathroom and a medicine cabinet. We don’t have too many secrets.

  “Do you want to do it without protection?”

  I groan, and somehow my dick thickens more, practically begging me to get down to business this second.

  Josie is killing me. Just fucking killing me. Max was right. I’ve got to get out of here. I can’t be near her. I can’t resist her.

  Right now, I don’t intend to.

  I shift her to the wall, push her back against it, and slide my hand between her legs. I stroke her pussy and marvel at the feel. It hits me that she’s this turned on simply from me washing her hair.

  Jesus Christ.

  In some alternate universe I’m the luckiest bastard on the face of the earth, to have a woman who’s so wildly aroused.

  In this one, I’m just the schmuck about to enjoy his final benefit.

  But make no mistake, I’m going to enjoy the ever-loving hell out of it.

  I hook her leg around my hip, holding her tight, then rub my dick against her sweet, wet center. A sexy moan falls from her gorgeous mouth, and I slide home.

  It’s extraordinary.

  And I never want to wear a condom again because this is motherfucking heaven. Her heat envelopes me. Her walls clench around my hard-on. Her breath catches, the most desperate sound I’ve ever heard her make.

  Then I fuck her.

  In my head, I say that word over and over.

  This is fucking. This is fucking. This is fucking.

  This isn’t making love.

  This is just the final screw before I go. I can’t care about the way she threads her hands in my hair. I can’t linger on the murmurs she makes. And I can’t give a second thought ever again to how she clutches me and cries my name when she comes, as if I’m the answer to her every wish.

  I won’t let myself think about how she sounds just as lost as I am.

  Because seconds later, I’m coming, too, and the pleasure blots out the empty ache.

  A little later I’m dried off and dressed. I zip up my backpack, which contains a few changes of clothes. Footsteps sound behind me, then a question.

  “What are you doing?”

  I turn around, take a breath, and rip off the Band-Aid like I promised I’d do. “I’m going to stay with Max.”

  Her jaw drops. “What?”

  I nod. “Just for a little while.”

  “Why?” Her brow furrows as her voice wobbles. She stands in my doorway, dressed in jeans and a cute green blouse. Her hair is blown dry, and the ends are bright pink now.

  I step closer. “I think the cake is baked now, baby,” I say softly, remembering I have to do this. “It’ll be easier this way.”

  “You’re just leaving?”

  “I’ll be back. I promise.” Though, right now I don’t know how to be near her when I want her this badly. “We always knew we had to stop. I can’t stop when I’m living in the same six hundred square feet as you. It feels like we’re playing house.”

  She bites her lip as if she’s holding in all her sadness. “You think we’re just playing house?”

  I glance around and wave at the walls, frustration building inside me, mixed with hurt. “We can’t just go on like this,” I say. Then I can’t help it. I’m done. I just can’t hold it in anymore. I unleash my heart. “I wake up next to you, and I want to touch you. I watch TV with you, and I can’t stop kissing you. Hell, I dye your hair and we wind up naked in the shower. I can’t just cut this off like it’s a growth and go back to watching Bored to Death without wanting to make love to you,” I say, then wince because I’ve made my great mistake.

  I swallow nervously, but stand my ground.

  Her eyes pin me, and she says nothing for a moment that lasts too long. When she speaks, her tone is soft and tender. “Was that what it was for you?”

  I won’t go first. “You tell me.” My voice is gravelly. Broken.

  She crosses her arms. She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she purses her lips then speaks softly. “I don’t want you to leave.”

  I reach for her elbow, desperation spiraling in me. But I’m not even sure what I’m fighting for—for her to see what we could become, or for her to let me go. “You want to stay friends, don’t you?”

  She nods. “You know I do.”

  I grip her arm tighter. “And you said this had to end. Josie, it’s too hard for me to be here right now. You’ve got to understand.”

  A tear slides down her cheek. Then one trickles over the other. More fall, like a summer rain shower. She swipes at her cheeks, but she’s fighting an uphill battle.

  I’m torn between wanting to pull her in my arms and comfort her and needing to protect myself. But there’s something else at play, too. Morbid curiosity. That wins. “Josie,” I say, and she draws a sharp inhale and looks up. “Was it that way for you?”

  She parts her lips, but no answer comes because a loud rap of knuckles reverberates through the apartment.

  “Did you order lunch or something?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and turns on her heel, heading for the door. “The doorman called a few minutes ago. He had to take care of something on our floor so he offered to bring up the package.”

  The knocking continues. “Ah, your rolling pin.”

  “Probably.” Her voice is empty.

  She peers through the peephole then nods at me. She unlocks and opens the door. A short, stout man in a green blazer stands at the threshold. The day doorman.

  “Ms. Hammer, this is for you,” he says, then hands her a white envelope. The legal size.

  She regards it curiously. “What is this?”

  “I signed for it yesterday. It’s a certified letter.”

  He turns to go, and she lets the door fall closed. She looks at me then at the envelope. I shrug and gesture to the item in her hand. Open it. She takes out a sheet of paper and reads.

  After a minute, she blinks and meets my eyes. “It’s from the landlord.” Her voice is a barren whisper.

  “What did he say?”

  “Mr. Barnes needs the apartment for his niece,” she says heavily, then shakes her head like she can’t believe the hand she was just dealt. “We have to be out in a month. We’re losing our home.”

  Looks like our days of playing house truly are over.

  32

  From the pages of Josie’s Recipe Book

  * * *

  Josie’s Misery Salad

  * * *

  Ingredients

  Lettuce

  Tomatoes

  Carrots

  Whatever

  * * *

  Wash lettuce. Even on days like this you don’t want to eat unwashed lettuce.

  Slice some tomatoes like you fucking care.

  Cut up some carrots. Doesn’t even matter if you peel them.

  Toss some oil and vinegar in it. Or don’t. Whatever.

  Eat it, especially since you need to punish yourself more. You totally effed up. You know you did. Where do we even start? Everywhere. From the beginning right on through to the other day when you watched him walk out the door. Idiot. You don’t deserve sweets.

  33

  I’d like to say I bury myself in work that next week, but that would do a disservice to every other day I’ve tended to a wound, or stitched up a knee, or removed a mustard jar from a butt.

  He
y, it’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.

  Anyway, work saves me.

  I’ve always buried myself in it, but I like to think that’s the only way to do the job. To give all of myself to it. I’m glad I have a job that demands everything of me. Mercy gets not only one hundred percent of my focus, but one hundred and ten percent. Maybe this is the real lucky-bastard life—to have a job I love so much that I don’t even have time to think about the girl I miss. At the end of each work day, I’m relieved I’ve logged ten or twelve hours without thinking about her.

  The trouble is my shift ends every evening.

  That’s when the missing begins in earnest, pain like a phantom limb, a persistent reminder of what I don’t have anymore.

  One night after work, Wyatt texts me to meet up with him and Nick, telling me it’s softball season and I need to get my ass to Central Park.

  I go, and I’m both grateful and really fucking depressed that Josie’s not playing this year. Nick hits a home run; that’s par for the course for him. I manage a small degree of satisfaction when I knock in two runners during my turn at bat.

  That feeling fades, though, when I leave, head downtown, and check my phone. There’s no note from Josie. I sigh heavily as I flop down on the couch at Max’s home, absently fiddling with the screen. I could write to her. I could text her. I should.

  But it’s too fucking hard. I didn’t even see her when I stopped by the apartment a few days ago to grab the rest of my things. I made sure to go when I knew she’d be at work.

  When Max comes home with Chinese takeout and beer, I switch off the Josie portion of my brain and turn on the hunger lobe. That does the trick, and I do find a small degree of pleasure in knowing I’m returning to old habits. I haven’t completely lost my dependable talent for compartmentalization. It’s like a renaissance of sorts, as I’m remade back into the guy who isn’t head over heels for a girl.

  Yup. I know this dude. I can be this dude. As I put my feet on Max’s coffee table, I stretch my arms, my old self coming back.

  He kicks off my foot. “Dude, this isn’t a frat house.”

  “Josie let me do it,” I grumble.

  He arches an eyebrow. “Josie doesn’t make the rules here.” He grabs the clicker and flicks on the TV, scrolling to HBO. “You seen the newest Ballers episode? This show kills it.”

  I groan and slide my hand over my face.

  “What? You don’t like the Rock?”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “Don’t tell me it reminds you of Josie.”

  Busted.

  “Maybe,” I mutter.

  “You should text her. See her. You’re supposed to be friends with her. Be fucking friends with her.”

  “She hasn’t texted me, though, except about keys and the apartment.”

  He smacks the back of my head. “What are you? Twelve?” He grabs my phone from the table and shoves it at me. “Call her. Have a coffee or whatever you do with her that doesn’t involve keys or the apartment or household shit.” He sets his laser-beam eyes to high. “Or I’ll do it for you.”

  That does the trick. I send her a note, asking her if she wants to have breakfast tomorrow. She says she’ll be leaving early for work, but suggests dinner or drinks in the evening.

  We settle on drinks. And it’s weird—Josie and I were never the friends who went out to get drinks. We sampled food. We saw movies. We wandered in and out of bookstores. We walked and talked and tried her bakery goods.

  I don’t want to get a brew with her.

  But I do it anyway, meeting her the next day at Speakeasy in Midtown. She’s already at the bar when I walk in. Perched on a stool, her legs are crossed, and she wears pink sandals, a purple skirt with a candy pattern on it, and a white tank top.

  My skin heats up, and I have to reel in all my dirty thoughts. Mainly the ones that remind me exactly what she looks like underneath those clothes. How she feels. How she tastes. How she moves, and moans, and groans, and for fuck’s sake, brain, have a little mercy on a man. Some things are not fair, like planting those alluring images in my head right now.

  I walk over to her, and it’s awkward for a moment. Then she hops off the stool and throws her arms around me. “Hey you.”

  “Hey you,” I echo and pump a virtual fist. We can do this.

  She holds up a hand like a stop sign. “Before we order, I have this for you.” She reaches into her bag and grabs a treat.

  Old times. Yes. We are back to the way we were. “Can’t wait.”

  “It’s a mini cinnamon bun. It’s like a cinnamon bun met a cookie.”

  “And they had babies.”

  She laughs. “They totally did. They got it on in the oven and made delicious cinnamony, sugary children. Try it.”

  “Bringing food into a bar. You scofflaw.”

  She brings her finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

  She hands the small treat to me, and it’s one of the sweetest things I’ve ever tasted. “Your mini bun is amazing,” I say, and I’m rewarded with her smile. “And yes, I do know that sounded dirty.”

  “It did, and I’m glad you said it, and glad you like it.” She leans closer, a playful look in her eyes. “Confession: I’ve always had a thing for cinnamon.”

  This is news to me, and I’m digging that she’s sharing pieces of herself, just the same as before. “That so? Tell me more.”

  She shrugs lightly. “It makes me feel as if I can do anything.”

  “So it’s like a good drug?”

  “Exactly.” She pats my knee like she used to do. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” Because some Josie is better than no Josie. “Hey, have you ever made a peanut butter brownie?”

  “Like with peanut butter in a chocolate brownie?”

  I tap my nose. “Yes.”

  “I have, but not recently.”

  “Put that on your afternoon special. That would be amazing.”

  She mimes writing a note, and the bartender swings by to take our orders. When he leaves, we chat, like two old friends catching up. “How’s everything? How’s the place?”

  “Actually,” she begins, taking her time. “I already moved out. After you picked up your things.”

  “Whoa. That was fast. You don’t let the body get cold.”

  “It just made sense.”

  “Did you get a new place already? I’m jealous that your real estate mojo is that good.”

  She shakes her head. “I moved some of the furniture to my parents’ storage unit. Well, Wyatt moved it, since he has a truck,” she says, and I feel like an ass that her brother helped her rather than me.

  “Sorry I wasn’t there to lend a hand.”

  A small smile appears on her face. “It’s no big deal. It was easy enough. And now I’m staying with Lily till I figure things out. Since she kicked out Rob, she’s got room for me.”

  Lily and Josie. Two lovely single ladies living together. My radar goes off. “Are you dating again?”

  She gives me a look that can only be read as you ass. “Seriously?”

  I swallow, trying to play it cool. “Aren’t we allowed to talk about that? We did before.”

  She nods.

  “So, that’s a yes? You’re dating?” Jealousy flares in me like wildfire, a hot, raging beast.

  She narrows her eyes. “I was acknowledging we used to talk about dating,” she says, clearly affronted by my questions. “What about you? Are you dating?”

  I huff, then scoff for good measure. “No. Hell no.”

  “Then why would I be?” she asks, holding her hands out wide in a question.

  “You wanted to before,” I point out.

  “Things changed.” She bites out each word.

  Yeah, “things” as in everything.

  She takes a deep breath as if she’s calming herself down. “Okay, let’s start over.” She smiles cheerily at me. “How’s work?”

  We talk about work, and only work, like
everything else is off the table. Maybe it should be. When it’s time to leave, we walk out together and stand awkwardly on the sidewalk, rocking on our heels.

  “Chase?”

  My heart beats faster from the way she says my name. “Yeah?” I ask like that one word contains all the hope in my universe.

  She smiles wistfully. “I miss you.”

  The hope dissipates. I wanted more than missing. But I answer her truthfully. “I miss you, too.”

  “We should do this again,” she says.

  “Absolutely.”

  Because we’re friends and this is what we wanted. This is what we planned for.

  She drops a quick kiss to my cheek before she walks away.

  I’m not sure if I like our new normal any more than I liked being without her.

  34

  On Thursday night, Max and I head to the newest Lucky Spot. Business has been booming for Spencer and Charlotte, and they just expanded their bar in the heart of Chelsea, adding on a Ping-Pong table room. On Monday and Wednesday nights, the bar hosts leagues for the sport, and Thursday is a themed night featuring Ping-Pong and champagne.

  Wyatt and Natalie called everyone together for a post-wedding evening out. I’m not sure if it’s their third or fourth wedding to each other, or just another excuse for them to celebrate being married. The two of them like doing that, and so the gang’s all here.

  That also means this is the first time Josie and I have hung out with the whole group of friends since the end of our short-lived stretch as roommates and an even briefer stint as lovers. But no one else knows about the latter except Max.

  As we walk along Eighteenth Street, I remind him. “Keep it on the down-low in front of everyone, okay?”

  He stage-whispers, “You mean about you having a big thing for Josie Hammer?”