The One I Want

by Scott, S. L.

  “I thought I had with the job at CWM.” I’m not trying to be snarky, but that’s more than a baby step. I mentally pat myself on the back for it.

  “I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” he says. I stop watering so I can hear his lowered voice better. “I’ve let you blame your parents for a lot of years gone wrong, and that didn’t do you any good. It’s time you look inward to figure out what’s really holding you back.”

  Raising an arm out, I ask, “What am I missing?” It’s a dumb, reactionary thing to say. I know what I’m missing in so many ways, but I try every day to be satisfied with the life I’ve created.

  “That’s for you to decide.” When he sits down again, he settles in for the night shift. “Now stop wasting time with this old man. I’m sure you have something better to do than hang out with me.”

  As I head for the elevators, not needing an engraved request to give him peace, I turn back and ask, “Was all this a roundabout way of saying you approve of me dating Mr. Christiansen?”

  A warm smile spreads wide. “Take it as you will.” My God, he is. That is high praise indeed. I was joking when I asked that question, but I actually think that Gil thinks Andrew and I could work.

  That has to be his own awesome marriage speaking. He and Nancy are a match made in heaven. Rare. Andrew’s way out of my league.

  Gil’s gaze lowers to the desk, and he turns up the volume. Just when I step into the elevator, I hear the sports announcers talking about the bottom of the third. Yankees are up.

  There’s so much to digest from what he said. Albeit small, my world has always held such creature comforts—the apartment I was raised in, Mr. Clark and Rascal down the hall, and Gil downstairs. It’s not like I don’t leave this place. I leave it every day, but I have a feeling Gil means more than the walls that make up this building or the invisible ones that form my bubble. As a matter of fact, I know he does.

  As soon as I enter my apartment, I think more about what Gil said.

  “One day, I’ll be gone, and I need to know that you’re living the life you were meant to. Whether that is with someone or alone, I want it to be your choice. Not made from fear but from love.”

  Where would I be if he wasn’t in my life? I’m sure I would have felt even more alone growing up. Is that what I’m doing? Making a choice from fear to be alone? Is it my choice, or am I hiding?

  Is Gil disappointed in me for not being honest with Andrew? I can’t have that. I send a text: I was thinking I could come over.

  I sit down, gnawing on my lower lip, and wait for a response. Come on, don’t leave me hanging.

  A message pops up: Apartment 17 B.

  I scramble to get ready—a casual dress, makeup, perfume—and burn some time since he’s not expecting me to show up in two minutes. I wait around for ten and then sneak through the stairwell until I reach his floor. I’ve lived here long enough to know seventeen is one of the most expensive real estate in the building. There are only two apartments, and I’m standing in front of one of them.

  Andrew opens the door and leans his head against the edge. “What brings you by?”

  “We need to talk.”

  17

  Andrew

  The timing couldn’t be better.

  I’ve not been home long, but my mind is already wrapped up, wondering what Juni is doing and if she’d want to go on another adventure tonight. After being locked away in meetings all day, I’m tired, but I’d make an exception for her.

  I pour a drink, get more comfortable in sweatpants and a T-shirt, and sit by the window. La bohéme plays softly in the background as I sip and listen. The music builds, crescendos, and falls again, reflecting my life in more ways than I care to admit.

  The whiskey doesn’t soothe me, and the view is dull.

  Even the soft material of my clothes doesn’t have me feeling more at home in my skin than spending time with her does. But none of that makes sense. She doesn’t fit into my plan, and I’m still not sure she didn’t weasel her way into it from the beginning.

  Does it matter now?

  I take another long sip and then stare at my phone. With the message box open, I think about what I’m doing and why. Why? It’s the one question I can’t seem to answer. I finish my drink and then let my wants take the lead: I was thinking we could hang out tonight?

  With my thumb poised over the send button, I pause, not sure why I’m holding back. She’s different from the other women I’ve dated. Dalen is a Hollywood bombshell. She’s intelligent, comes from money, and has become a sweetheart over the years. That’s why we reconnected. It took a long time to get over her cheating on me.

  The girls I dated in college were sweet but not driven in the same direction in life, one even telling me she couldn’t wait to introduce me to her parents back in Kansas. We’d just fucked for the first time (and last, I’ll add), and she was already making wedding plans.

  I’ve dated women who had more ambition than I did—from sports agents to damage control PR reps for the latest scandals in LA to a restaurateur in the Bay Area. I saw potential for something more long-term with one of the Top 30 under 30 tech entrepreneurs in Seattle after our first couple of dates. The third time we went out, I learned she would never leave Washington State. That city is too rainy, too cold, too not LA. It was also only a pit stop in my journey.

  Although I haven’t been here long, it’s long enough to know that I need to get out there. Maybe not like my mom would like or how Jackson dates—a man on a mission—but make a real effort to find more balance. That’s something I’ve not been good with. Now’s a great time to get it rectified. I delete the text and type a new one instead: Would you like to go out with me on Saturday night?

  Before I press send, I rifle through my past, wondering how someone with a heart of gold like Juni fits into my future. Do I really have time to dedicate to someone else, or will she get hurt? I’d hate myself for doing that to her, but I’m not sure I have the control to make that decision.

  Christiansen Wealth Management is priority number one. I delete the text just as one comes through: I was thinking I could come over.

  I stare at the screen, trying to calculate the chances of her thinking the same thing as I was.

  Chance of being bitten by a shark: one in four million.

  Chance of being struck by lightning: one in five-hundred thousand.

  Based on recent history: The chance of Juni and I thinking the same thing at the same time is incalculable.

  So maybe it’s not by chance at all that she texted. Maybe the universe is playing her cards. As my dad would say about opportunity, “Open the door.” I text: Apartment 17 B.

  Who am I to tempt fate?

  There’s no need to stress. The apartment is still spotless from the cleaning crew that came yesterday. My clothes are comfortable. We’re hanging out, not going to the ballet. I pour another drink and then make myself at home on the couch to wait.

  The knock on the door isn’t forceful but soft as if she’s suddenly become shy. Not wanting a spoiler, I don’t peek through the peephole. I just swing that door wide open.

  But I wasn’t prepared . . . I never am for her, it seems.

  She doesn’t have to try to be utterly breathtaking—she just is whether her hair is up or down, her clothes fitted or baggy, dressed up or casual. Those things are obvious. It’s her smile and her hazel eyes that shine brighter than the stars on a clear night that have her stealing my breath and staring at her face. And everyone else she comes in contact with.

  She just doesn’t seem to notice or doesn’t care that all eyes land on her. I couldn’t help the chuckle the first day I saw the poor coffee shop schmuck who thought he had a chance with her. He probably didn’t even have chest hair yet. But it made complete sense. She’s different from every other woman. She was made to stand out.

  The green of her eyes is brighter tonight. The other time I’ve seen that color take the lead was when she was laughing in the ice cream
parlor and then inside the office when she brought me coffee.

  The brown is showier, at least for me. Anger turns the golden centers to fire, and she struggles to hide the emotion, like when I called her a stalker or when Mary called me by my first name.

  Juni may not be my girlfriend, but she has a jealous streak.

  Dressed in jeans and an NYU sweatshirt, she says, “We need to talk.”

  I open the door all the way and step aside because Juni’s a sight for sore eyes despite that ominous opening line. She has a flair for the dramatic—as if everything at that moment is the most important thing—so I’m not stressing yet.

  There’s no rushing in. She takes her time entering the apartment with wide eyes, studying everything she passes from the artwork to photographs, the furniture and the layout. Again, it makes me realize I have no idea where she lives.

  What’s her view like? Which floor does she live on? Does she prefer taking the stairs or the elevator? And when I really get going down this rabbit hole, I realize I don’t know anything about her living situation, not even if she lives alone.

  “Do you live with somebody else? Do you have roommates or live with family?” I shut the door but remain in the entry.

  The question seems to take her by surprise, her gaze cutting through the distance to reach me. “What made you ask that?”

  Signaling to her sweatshirt, I say, “You went to NYU, but I don’t know much else about you.”

  “You know more than most.” Her words aren’t clipped, and she doesn’t sound bothered. If I didn’t know that she’d come here to talk about something else entirely, I’d guess this might be it.

  I cautiously cover the next ten steps to get closer, but leave plenty of room for her to explore. “You’re really good at hiding and a master at distracting, changing the subject, and easing out of any situation that makes you uncomfortable. Call me selfish, but I’d like to know more instead of less.”

  Worry creases her forehead, and she bites the inside of her cheek. “I came here to tell you. . .” Her breathing picks up, and her gaze falls to the floor. Her waterfall reaction has me curious to know how close I am to the cliff.

  Is this it?

  No more friendship?

  “Would you like something to drink? I’m having whiskey.” I find my glass on the windowsill and take a sip.

  “Oh, um. Sure. What do you have that has more alcohol than water but isn’t as strong as whiskey?”

  “I’m pretty well stocked. Do you like wine? I have white or red.”

  “A glass of white, please. Maybe that’s what I need.” I’m not sure I was supposed to hear the last part, but she’s not rushing to hide she said it.

  Attempting to read her is one of the hardest things I’ve ever tried to do. I usually have no idea what she’ll say or what she needs. But I’m getting better. “Rough day?”

  While I’ve been pretending we can actually be friends, the temperature has risen between us. I feel it, and I have a strong suspicion she does as well.

  I’ll still do just about anything for this woman even without knowing much about her. She’s good. Her heart, her energy, and her intentions. In the short time I’ve known Juni, I’ve become an expert witness to it.

  I’d kiss her if she asked, take her out if she wanted.

  Whiskey has built my confidence.

  But it’s as though I can see her clearer than I did in the office or even in the park. She hides more than she thinks I realize. While I pour a glass of wine for her, I say, “You can tell me anything.”

  She comes into the kitchen, her fingertips tracing the charcoal veining on the top of the white stone counter. Stopping on the other side of the island from me, she rests her middle against it and says, “I live alone.” She makes it sound like a sentence she’s completing.

  I slide the wineglass toward her, thinking this might be good timing. She probably needs something to take the edge off whatever’s hanging over her head.

  Taking a drink, she keeps her eyes on mine even when she sets the glass back down again. “I’ll be twenty-six in two months, and I’ve never had a full-time job.”

  Not wasting the opportunity, I ask, “How do you survive? How do you live in the city?”

  “My parents died when I was seventeen.” Her tone isn’t offish or cold; it’s factual. Damn, that’s heartbreaking.

  And now I feel like shit for pressing her. “I’m sorry.” I can’t imagine what she’s had to go through. It’s easy to get caught up in the dynamics of my family—the good and bad, the ridiculous and stress that comes with being the kid of a highly respected couple. But I have Cookie and Corbin through it all. I don’t want to think about a day when I won’t.

  “So am I.” She takes another sip and then exhales a deep breath. “They had made a lot of money and had life insurance policies.”

  My mind goes to finances. It’s my comfort, the place where I’m at my best. This is a damn nice neighborhood. My apartment went well above eight mil. If she lives nearby, that explains how she can afford it.

  Why’d I ask that? Well, I know why—I let my curiosity overrule my mind. I deal with money for a living. Privacy is important in my business. But mostly, I had no right because she’s not my client. “I shouldn’t have pried. My apologies.”

  “It’s okay. It’s not a secret that I can hide. It’s a fact in the public domain. I’m not trying to keep things from you, Andrew. I’ve just learned to protect my heart.”

  “I won’t hurt you, Juni. I know that sounds like a line, but I want nothing from you other than to know you better.”

  “I can’t promise you the same. I’m as skittish as an alley cat. But being friends means trusting each other. I haven’t done that, though I’ve expected it from you. That’s not fair.”

  It’s a thing of beauty when her protective wall finally descends, exposing her heart. I reply, “Friends means honesty.”

  She nods. Picking up her glass, she taps it against mine. “Being friends means we’re on equal footing.”

  While she drinks to that, I remind her, “I’m your boss.”

  “Not outside that office, you’re not.” An eyebrow raises in challenge, and there’s that fire she carries inside her eyes.

  “Touché.” I tap her glass this time. “To equal footing. Outside the office,” I shoot right back.

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  We both do. Her spirits have lifted, and although the wine could get credit, I’m hoping it’s the conversation. Wandering through the living room, she ends up where I was before she arrived. It has the best view. You can see down the avenue in both directions and the sky above. “Andrew?”

  “Yes?”

  “If I tell you something, will you not make fun of me?”

  “Why in the world would I make fun of you?”

  She searches my eyes for a lie, but her expression eases. She appears satisfied not to find one. “Juniper.”

  “Juniper?” Juni. I’m grinning too wide to hide it. “That’s your first name?”

  “It is. You didn’t look at my file?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you can.” There’s a remorseful pause, but then she giggles, and that pulls her pretty features away from shame. “Sorry. I would have snooped. Anyway, yep, I’m Juniper Jacobs. It’s quite the testament to the love of alliteration” That’s what I thought.

  “It’s a good name.”

  “If you love trees, which my parents did. Did you know that in some cultures, the juniper tree represents enduring potential?”

  “That’s a hefty expectation to live up to as a baby.”

  She rolls her head but is still smiling. “Tell me about it.”

  “I’d rather listen to you.”

  “Pfft. I’m not as interesting as you seem to think I am.” Her gaze extends through the window, but then she closes her eyes and sways her head to the soundtrack of our conversation that plays in the background. “I love La bohéme.”
>
  “Me too. Before we get sidetracked, what do you want to talk about?”

  The dread she wore in her expression when she arrived is gone, and she asks, “What are you doing this weekend?”

  18

  Andrew

  Another late night leads to another missed workout this morning. Though I can’t blame Juni. Juniper, for it. She left just after eleven, insisting I stay put instead of walking her home.

  The night was low-key, but there weren’t any lulls in the conversation. It’s been a while since I’ve hung out with anyone other than family. It was fun, relaxing. Unexpectedly so. That’s not a bad thing. Quite the opposite. It felt . . . natural, like we’ve known each other so much longer than we have.

  My mom once mentioned how souls find each other through the chaos of the universe. Drawn together. That we don’t just have soul mates in this life, but souls we connect with on a different level.

  Tonight was the first time I felt the truth in that. For a few hours, I was my old self. The surfer, the rowdy kid cruising Sunset on a Saturday night, the guy who used to know how to have a good time before the responsibility kicked in. It was good to get a glimpse of me again.

  I also found out, after losing fifty bucks, that Juni’s as serious about blackjack as she is about ice cream. She’s a card shark, and I learned not to bet against her.

  Pretty sure that’s accurate in life as well. Even though she’s not had it easy. She is still an enigma, yet I don’t feel threatened by that.

  Last night was good, but every night is good with her.

  The problem is that I spent hours unable to fall asleep after she left. With a million tasks on my mind and falling behind with work, I lay in bed and strategize my plan of attack for today. I need this meeting to go well.

  I only get one shot at landing the account, which is why I missed my workout. I spent the time researching everything I could online and adding to the file my team created.

  Dressed in my favorite suit, the one I was wearing when my dad promoted me to CEO, I step off the elevator, ready to tackle the day. Wait . . . I got off too soon and move backward onto the elevator again. But a quick glance to double-check the number has me realizing I’m on the correct floor already. “Sorry,” I tell the other passengers as I walk off again, embarrassed I don’t recognize my reception area.