The One I Want

by Scott, S. L.

I never know when I’m going to see Juni.

  I just do.

  She’s suddenly there, behind a bush or on the office floor. I never know when I’m going to see her next.

  Scanning the street when I arrive home, I expect to see her walking Rascal or coincidentally catching her as she crosses my path. Hell, skydiving onto the awning wouldn’t surprise me at this point.

  But even though I don’t, her presence fills my air. My world is feeling much smaller these days. The part I don’t understand is why I’m not bothered by it. For years, nothing sidetracked my goals, ensuring CWM thrives. It’s been my only thought day and night. And now, it’s as though my mission has shifted, and I’m stuck in the middle of a Tom Hanks movie.

  Tut.

  What am I thinking? We’re not in a romance movie. This is real life.

  Mine, to be specific.

  But admitting that I wish I knew where she lived is the first step. If I did, I could be on the lookout or even parachute into her world for once. But I didn’t even know her last name until this morning.

  Jacobs.

  Not what I would have imagined, but Juni Jacobs has some nice alliteration going on. Not that a form of figurative language is imperative when naming kids or couples, but there’s a nice ring to it.

  Shit.

  Before I have a chance to justify my stance, I’m devil advocating against myself.

  Corbin Christiansen.

  Cookie Christiansen.

  Dalen Dalery.

  Ethan Everest.

  Jackson St. James. That might be a stretch, but then the couples come into play. Cookie & Corbin. Nick & Natalie. Andrew & Juni . . .

  Nope. Doesn’t work. That’s why being friends with each other does.

  With my finger on the trigger, I hold the bottle of air freshener in the air, ready to press it. I had the displeasure of my neighbor cooking again, still completely disregarding how it affects others through what I can only figure is an outdated ventilation system.

  Although there’s no rhyme or reason that allows me to prepare for these international cooking fests, it occurs to me that this person follows some patterns.

  They like cooking past what’s considered dinnertime to the average American and always after ten PM. Sometimes as late as one in the morning—or early, depending on how you view such times of the day.

  They like to set the scene with music to match the theme. I’m curious if they decorate as well.

  Also, it’s never something simple like a burger being cooked. There’s an international flair to these meals. Mexican food last week. Indian over the weekend—in the middle of the night when I was trying to prevent a hangover from invading my head. And Italian tonight.

  The scent of marinara wafted through the vents along with La bohème played at an offensive volume. Not a note was missed, not even in my apartment with those three closed vents. Unfortunately.

  I went to bed early and in a sour mood.

  The thing is, I’m not sure why. My grandparents used to drag us to the opera, so listening to it is not torture. I actually kind of enjoyed hearing it again since it’s been so long. But my night was off, and I think I narrowed it down to something inside me.

  I miss Juni.

  Her pesky little tangents and the way she sees the world are totally different than I do. I’ve been a realist. Dreamers were younger siblings and people who weren’t committed to a path before they knew how to walk.

  There’s a reason everyone calls me uptight, and it’s not because of my own choosing. It’s because I stepped up to the expectation plate and hit a homer for the home team—the Christiansens and our close to three hundred employees. CWM’s books have never been better.

  But what if . . .

  What if I start living for me? Not give up my work ethic, but sneak in something that’s not for others, something that’s personal for me. Juni.

  Nobody has to know unless we want them to. I put down the air freshener because maybe the smell is better than I want to admit. It might even be delicious.

  Sitting on the couch, I pick up the phone and do the one thing we haven’t done since the night we exchanged numbers. I text her again: What are you up to?

  I fall back, realizing I just redefined the term lame.

  But then three little dots roll across the screen, giving me hope I didn’t blow it. And disappear.

  Reappear as if to wave hello and boom—a message appears: Nothing.

  Narrowing my eyes, I reread the message again. That can’t be all there is. That took a long damn time to type one word. Call me pushy, but I reply: Literally nothing or just nothing worth mentioning?

  Juni: If you must know, I have an apricot mask on my face, and I’m in a hot bubble bath. Didn’t think you wanted those kinds of details since you’re my boss, so I deleted it, but now I’ve put it out there, so do what you may with the information.

  Despite pointing out that I’m her boss, she teases me with no fear of repercussion. Sitting by myself at eleven-oh-six on a Monday night, I’m here smiling like an idiot.

  She does that to me, evoking other reactions as well. More specifically, by wearing that skirt, the shoes, the curve of her legs, and the sweet smile I catch playing on her lips right before she blushes. Juni is sexy without knowing it, and that makes her even more attractive by default. I feel more alive when I’m in her presence. I feel confused too, but that doesn’t need to be worked out tonight.

  Getting up, I pace around the couch, staring at my phone like it might catch fire. With her, it’s all fun and games, but it makes me wonder if I’m crossing a line. I know the answer. The only debate is whether I do it anyway.

  Another message shows up on the screen: Was it the apricot mask? You’re more of a matcha green tea kind of guy, right?

  The winky face she punctuated the text with doesn’t do much to assuage my guilt, but no one has to know. I’m typing before I can change my mind: I don’t like tea.

  What the hell am I writing? Nonsense, that’s what.

  Juni: What do you like, Andrew?

  Me: I like . . .

  I was so sure an answer would come easily, but as my fingers hover over the screen, I realize I don’t have a response. I don’t know what I like anymore because everything is different here. In LA, I had systems in place. Work, meetings, drumming up business, working out, meeting up with Dalen. Yet the only thing that’s changed about my routine is Dalen.

  I should miss her, shouldn’t I?

  We’ve known each other for years, but there was no . . . no heart involved. No plans set in concrete.

  No commitment.

  No feelings.

  I should feel something from her absence—a hole or longing to see her—but I don’t.

  She isn’t my person.

  I stole that last line from my mom, but I know she won’t mind.

  I answer honestly: I don’t know anymore.

  There’s no response and no dots to comfort me. I’ve never felt more alone than I do now. Not because of abandonment issues from my childhood because I don’t have those. I can’t blame Juni either for not rushing to reply with some filler to make me feel better.

  My job placates instead of excites, and I don’t feel like myself anymore.

  I used to know who I was, and as much as I claim to have been steered into this career, I made the final decision to pursue it. I take responsibility for the decisions that got me here. It wouldn’t be fair to take credit but leave out the disappointments. But this is different.

  New York is becoming another Seattle—just another stop while keeping my real in California.

  How is that a way to live? It’s not. It’s survival, something I’m really fucking good at.

  The phone rings in my hand, and I stare at her name on the screen. Do I answer it? Texting was one thing. Sexting quite another. But is it crossing a line if we’re just friends? “Hello?”

  “You can’t leave me hanging like that.” It’s good to hear her voice, calm was
hing through me from the frequency. She gets a little pitchy sometimes, but I like it.

  I like her company, even if it’s just listening to her. I grin, perching on the windowsill and looking out into the night. Wondering how far the distance between us extends, I ask, “Where do you live?”

  “Oh no, you don’t, Mr. Christiansen,” she replies, a lightness caught in her tone as if she’s dragged yesterday’s sunshine into our night. The sound of water sloshing as if she’s getting out of the tub is heard. “No changing the subject.”

  “And the subject was?”

  “Is. The subject is that you don’t know what you like. You can’t name one thing?”

  “I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me. I just don’t have time to worry about such things.”

  There’s a pause, but undeterred, she asks, “What about ice cream?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you like it?”

  I move to the couch to settle in for a bit. “Who doesn’t like ice cream?”

  “Lactose intolerant people don’t like it.”

  “I don’t think that’s true. I bet a lot of them do like it, but they can’t have it.”

  She goes quiet. I listen to her breathing like a fucking stalker—it’s airy with a musical quality to it. And then I hear it—music playing in the background. “Are you listening to classical?”

  “Yes. Do you like it?” she asks as if she’s on to something.

  “Sometimes.”

  I can imagine she’s rolling her eyes. “Me too.”

  The upbeat tempo is famous. “Is that Vivaldi?”

  “Yes. I was listening to Puccini earlier, but he gets intense. I needed something happier.” The sound of her shuffling through papers, keys, or coins and other odd noises cut through her words. “Back to the ice cream. What’s your favorite flavor?”

  This I know. It’s remained the same since I was little. “Rocky road.”

  “Wow. I misjudged you, Mr. Christiansen.” I like when she calls me that, but keep that like to myself. “I really had you pegged for a vanilla guy.”

  “What’s with you pegging for anything—vanilla ice cream or matcha green tea?”

  “You’re right. You’re unpredictable.” Why does she not sound convincing? “What are you doing right now?”

  “Talking to you. Ba dum dah. I’ll be here all night, folks. Don’t forget to tip your bartenders.”

  “You’re a funny guy when you’re not in business mode.”

  “What can I say? Numbers aren’t that funny.” My cheeks ache. I didn’t realize I was smiling this whole time until the pain set in. This friends thing I have going with her isn’t so bad. Not like I had a lot of other choices. I have Nick and Jackson. But even with them in the picture, I like my relationship with Juni.

  “Very true. Now back to ice cream.”

  She has me craving a sweet treat. I look back at the kitchen, mentally tallying what will satisfy the craving. “You were saying?”

  “Meet me outside the building in ten minutes.”

  “What? Why?” I spy the hands of my watch. “You know it’s after eleven, right?”

  “And it’s a Monday night. We can come up with a million excuses, but all we need is one reason to have fun.” A door squeaks, and I have a feeling she’s getting a head start.

  Popping off the couch, I rush to my room with the phone in my hand. “What’s that reason?”

  “Life, Andrew. We’re going to live like we don’t have work at eight in the morning.”

  “But we do.” I drop my night pants and pull a pair of jeans on over my boxer briefs.

  “No buts, just adventure. You have eight minutes left.” The ding of an elevator overrides the last word.

  Fuck. I snag a T-shirt and pull it over my head. “What happens if I’m not there?”

  “I leave without you.”

  “Ah, fuck it. I’ll be down there with time to spare.” I hang up and finish grabbing my shoes before I rush to the bathroom and run my hand through my hair. I look like shit, but I don’t care.

  Hurrying back into the living room, I grab my keys and tuck my wallet into my pocket as I head out the door. With only five minutes left, I debate if I should take the elevator. It’s too damn slow, and currently, the number is stuck on the second floor. I can cover seventeen flights much faster.

  I take off running and push through into the stairwell at the end of the hall. Running down the stairs, I use the railing to help swing my body around the corners even faster.

  “Don’t get up,” I yell to Gil as I run through the lobby. Rushing out the door, I come to a stop when I see her. “I’m here. I’m here,” I say through harsh breaths. Bending over, I rest my palms on my knees, trying to catch my breath. Sweaty with my hair hanging over my eyes, I look up. “Did I make it?”

  She’s grinning ear to ear. “You’re right on time.”

  14

  Andrew

  “There’s no shame in my ice cream game.”

  That was the last thing Juni said before she left me standing with a melting rocky road cone in one hand and her sweater in the other while she perused the counter for the next fifteen minutes.

  After spending ample time debating each of the nineteen flavors, she looks back at me with her bottom lip tucked under her teeth, and then asks, “Maybe I’m in the mood for sorbet?”

  “Ice cream,” I reply, getting her back on track with this mission.

  With her eyes locked on the prize, she proudly walks up to the counter, and orders, “Raspberry chocolate chip, please,” like she won’t ever get another opportunity to eat ice cream again.

  I didn’t realize this was going to be an event. Had I known, I would have mentally prepared better. But I have a feeling that I’ll never be fully prepared for an adventure that involves Juni.

  She insisted on paying. I argued but realized I wouldn’t win that battle. I’m taking my last bite when she walks up. With her head tilted to the side, she drags her tongue along the deep pink cream. I lower my arm that has her sweater draped over it and clear my throat. “We should get out of here. It’s getting crowded, especially for being almost midnight on a weekday.”

  “You’re here,” she says, as if that proves her point.

  Blocked from opening the door properly, I stand on the opposite side and use my height to hold it open high above her head. She happily ducks under to exit, reminding me how small she is. She can’t be more than five-two or three. “Late night, sweet treat.”

  I could call her the same. I don’t. But I could.

  We move out of the entrance and start strolling back toward my building. I say, “I haven’t had ice cream in a long time.”

  “It’s good, right?” Eager anticipation colors her expression, as does a chocolate chip above the right corner of her mouth. I subtly lick the corner of mine. Without acknowledging the act, her tongue dips out and sweeps the chocolate away.

  “It was. I’m glad I came out.”

  Joy surges through her spine, causing a little wiggle, and she looks down at her feet. When I’m granted the beauty of her hazel eyes again, she whispers, “Me too.”

  I’m quick to pull her close when a boisterous group of teenagers hoards most of the sidewalk, leaving little room for others. She doesn’t appear to mind my arm wrapped around her waist as though it belongs there.

  I don’t either.

  Removing it is the right thing to do among friends. So, I do.

  She asks, “How long has it been since you went out for ice cream?”

  It’s odd how that question hits sideways in my gut. Probably because it brings some truth to the surface. “I don’t remember.”

  Although she had just taken a bite, which should bring pleasure, sympathy wriggles into her eyes. “I’m glad we’re remedying that.”

  The moment passes, but I won’t complain that the focus is off me. I prefer to be the one behind the scenes instead of in the spotlight. We continue walking. Her eyes are mome
ntarily hidden behind closed lids as she savors the sweet flavor. When she reopens them, she catches me staring. Touching the side of her lips, she asks, “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “If it’s nothing, then why are you looking at me like that?”

  Chuckling, I reply, “I like how much you’re enjoying that ice cream.”

  “See?” she says, confident the universe has her back. I have a strong suspicion it does. “We’ve gotten two likes out of you. Rocky road and me.” She giggles. “Well, not me specifically, but . . .” She bumps into my side and taps her head to my arm in a nudge. “You’re having fun, and that’s what this is all about.”

  “I am. Thanks for insisting I join you.”

  “I didn’t really have to twist your arm. You didn’t waste a second getting downstairs.”

  Running is a good way to clear my mind, and lifting weights helps maintain my muscle mass, but I rarely combine them. Yet getting down seventeen flights of stairs to beat her clock was worth the soreness I’ll feel tomorrow. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I shrug. “It was no big deal.”

  We approach the coffee shop where we met last week. It’s closed at this hour, but we still stop to take a peek. It’s become a regular stop when I need something better than what’s served at the office. She sits on the bridge ledge of the windowsill as she comes to the end of her cone.

  “I shouldn’t probably admit how boring my life is, but it’s nice being out of the apartment.” She sits, contentedly listening as I continue rambling. “I miss having an outdoor space, a patio to spread out on, or a short drive to the beach.”

  “Have you always only lived in Los Angeles?”

  Nodding, I look down the street and then back at her again. “I spent a few months in Seattle before I moved to New York.”

  “The other CWM office,” she says, filling in the blanks. “The other night, you said you were here for two years. What is that deadline?”

  “Imaginary. It’s just a mental note I keep.”

  “Because it’s that bad living here?”

  “No, because I left everything in LA, and some days, I get homesick. That doesn’t sound very mature—” I turn to face the sidewalk to block her gaze that’s determined to read me like a book.