Unraveling Josh

by Edie Danford

  If he were any other guy, I’d make a joke, make excuses to Abby and Emma, take his hand and make tracks to the nearest private spot.

  I suddenly became aware the table was quiet. I licked my chocolatey-tasting lips. I should’ve been thinking of something clever to say. I should’ve been asking Josh about what the hell he was doing here. I should’ve been getting more water for Abby—

  “So what part of Chicago are you from, Nick?” Josh asked.

  “Northern ’burbs,” I said. “My whole family is spread out from Evanston to Lake Geneva.” It was a brilliantly vague answer. And not even a lie.

  “I know the area well,” he said. “I spent my high school years in Lake Woods.”

  “Oh…cool.”

  And here was the moment when I should confess I’d graduated from Lake Woods High. Then we could shoot the shit until we discovered our ships had indeed passed on the shores of Lake Michigan—Josh’s yacht a hell of a lot more smoothly than my lopsided little sailboat. The words were clogging in my throat along with my breath and a few lumps of chocolate, but before I could think how to force them out, Abby saved me.

  “Oh shit, look at the time,” she said, glancing at her phone.

  I looked at the big clock hanging behind the counter. Nine on the dot. Once again I was going to be fashionably late to my work-study job.

  “Italian lit seminar,” Emma explained as she and Abby stood and began gathering their things. “Can’t be late for Signora.”

  “Cool,” Josh said, smiling. He pushed his chair away from the table but didn’t stand. “Signora Fiorella?”

  “Yeah,” Abby said. “You’ve had some classes with her?”

  Josh shook his head. “I took Russian when I was a student here. I knew her from when I had a gig in the languages department for a few quarters.”

  “Nice.” Emma zipped up her backpack. “So you’ve graduated and you’re just back for a visit or something?”

  “Yeah, I graduated a couple years back.” He shot me a look like, Weird, right?, and then he said, “Now I’m here doing research I’ll need to complete my dissertation and I’ll also be helping Professor Pearlstein with some projects he’s working on with my advisor down in Boston. I’ve got a fellowship for a year or two, depending.”

  My hand jerked. The glass clattered against my cappuccino cup, drowning out Emma’s expressions of happiness over Josh’s news.

  “Okay over there?” Charles called from the counter.

  I waved and smiled and felt the fire on my cheeks stoke up again. “Nothing broke,” I called back. Except for my brain.

  “We didn’t have time to ask what your schedule was this quarter, Nicky.” Emma adjusted her bag over her shoulder.

  “I’ll be around,” I said.

  “We’ll probably see you around too, right, Josh?”

  “I’ll definitely be haunting the library.” He raised his mug in salute.

  Emma and Abby waved and left the café. I sat there and tried to think of how to act smooth while my insides were rocking like Brian May was wailing on his guitar in my gut.

  “So,” Josh said, raising his brows at me. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “Yeah, fancy that.” I pushed a chunk of hair away from my face—the old rubber band I’d used to pull it back had obviously lost its ability to hold shit together. I understood the feeling.

  “When did you get into town?” he asked.

  “Tuesday.”

  “Me too. You take the coach up from Boston?”

  “Yep.”

  He smiled. “Would’ve given you a ride in my U-Haul, if I’d known you were headed this way.”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled lamely. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d known Josh was headed to Ellery. To spend a year or maybe two. To work with Professor Pearlstein. Who was my idol. Pearlstein was my idol, not Josh. Well, Josh used to be my idol, but God. I couldn’t brain anymore.

  I needed to do something. Right now. Dropping out of Ellery wasn’t an option. One, my folks would freak out. Two, it would be dumb. And three, I should start with something more basic. Like getting out of my chair.

  His smile quirked. “Are you freaking out?”

  “No. Not at all.” I was not freaking out. I was Mr. Smooth when it came to dealing with guys I’d fucked and left behind. Casual. Friendly. I was so copacetic about this type of scene I was legendary. Epic. Extraordinarily cool—

  “Because you look like you might be.”

  “Thanks.”

  He laughed. “Cute, definitely. But, also freaked out.”

  I sighed. What the hell were we doing here, talking like this? I should get up and go to the special collections department and get to work.

  “I like your glasses,” he said, undaunted by my dopey silence.

  Josh Pahlke was flirting with me—that’s what was going on here. In his sweet, friendly, slightly awkward way, he was flirting, and he was totally messing with my style.

  I fisted my hand, preventing any self-conscious fiddling with my specs. “Thanks,” I said again, this time trying for sincerity.

  “So you must be a…sophomore?”

  “You guessed it.”

  Okay, so maybe I was freaking out. Because the idea of sitting across from Josh for another five minutes and discussing the mundane details of my life was making me want to lodge my empty cappuccino cup across the room. Maybe at Charles’s poor innocent head. He kept looking over here, so maybe he wasn’t so innocent. He caught my eye and gave me a big thumbs-up. Josh’s back was to him, so Charles also took the opportunity to do an eyebrow waggle and a hand-wave in front of his face, all Is it hot in here?

  And no. No, no, no. This was not happening.

  Charles—one of the biggest gossips on campus—was not going to run around and tell everyone I was all pink-cheeked and chocolate-faced and swooning over Josh Pahlke in the library café. He was not going to tell everyone that Josh was my latest goal. Because I wasn’t after Josh Pahlke.

  I’d had Josh. I’d lived out my fantasy. Sure, it might be awesome to have another shot at making my fantasy more fantastical and less…brief. Put more of my skills to work to make him come all night long and twice in the morning. But it was impossible to ignore the glaringly obvious fact that Josh was a nice guy. A nice guy who needed another nice guy. Someone patient and caring and consistent. Someone to be there for him and show him his “issues” weren’t a big deal at all. Someone who had his shit totally together, who didn’t have hang-ups about the past.

  So, yeah, someone who was not me. I was not a nice guy. I was the summertime winner of the Notch Spot’s hookup contest. I was—as Lucy put it—an arrogant a-hole about sex and relationships.

  I stood and his smile faded. “I was supposed to be at work at nine. Gotta run.”

  He watched as I tugged my bag over my shoulder. “Sorry if I made this uncomfortable.” He gestured at Abby’s and Emma’s empty chairs.

  “You didn’t—”

  “I saw you sitting here and I had to come over. I was surprised. Both by the idea you were an Ellery student and by how happy I was to see you again. Pretty fricking hilarious coincidence. Especially since I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you—”

  “Where you headed next?” The first step in making this a normal, everyday situation was to act normal. Babbling at each other like idiots wasn’t gonna cut it.

  “What?”

  I gestured at his empty coffee mug. “Are you getting more coffee or are you off somewhere?”

  “I was gonna head down to the manuscripts department. I’m supposed to introduce myself because I’ll be working with one of the collections as part of my job.”

  Yep. Just as I suspected. Not coincidence. It was fate. Kismet. Weird-ass voodoo shit. “That’s where I’m headed too,” I told him.

  His smile came back. “For real?”

  “Yeah. I have a work-study gig there.”

  “No way.” He laughed and stood. He was warm and he s
melled good and I loved the sound of his laughter. I took a step off to the side, waiting as he bussed his mug, taking mine to the bin too, of course.

  We retrieved our bags and headed out of the café. As we walked the long, glass-walled hall that led to Special Collections, he brushed his arm against mine and asked, “So will you shut me down again if I ask you what your major is?”

  I laughed. “You probably guessed it, anyway. History major. And I’ll probably minor in art history.”

  “Excellent,” he said. “As a fellow history major, I’m kind of obligated to ask about your, um…area of specialty. But I’ll wait for a second date before I get too personal.”

  I shot him a glance and when he raised his eyebrows at me suggestively, I giggled at his unbelievably dorky flirting skills. Kind of shocking that shit actually worked on me. Anyway, the sound started out as a giggle, but hopefully I managed to transform it into a scoffing ha-ha laugh before it reached Josh’s ears.

  I pushed through the department’s big double doors. The front of the reading room was dominated by twelve huge oak tables. Behind the tables was the long circulation desk. Behind the desk were the stacks. They were enclosed in a glass case—four stories of glorious, bookish awesomeness—climate-controlled and UV-protected thanks to some zillionaire alum.

  The tables were mostly empty—this early in the quarter only a few diehard eggheads were doing research—and a librarian and a clerk were discussing something behind a big computer monitor at the circulation desk.

  “So.” My voice came out too loud. I adjusted it to quiet-library level. “I’ve gotta go meet up with one of the manuscript processors. See where the project I was working on last year stands. Do you know where you’re going?”

  “Yep. Spent more than a few hours in here as an undergrad.”

  I nodded and pushed some stray hair behind my ear. Josh’s gaze followed my hand’s movement and then, after I quickly shoved my hand in my pocket, he raised his gaze to my mouth. I licked my lips. Damn it.

  And, oh hell, I finally noticed what was happening under Josh’s crisp white collar. There was a big ol’ gauze bandage covering the side of his neck. And I was pretty sure it was the side I’d sucked the hell out of last weekend. I didn’t know whether to be proud or horribly ashamed. Any other guy I would’ve laughed and made a go-me joke. But I was standing in the middle of the mostly silent reading room—not the place for licking Josh’s wounds or begging his forgiveness—and I just couldn’t deal.

  “I’ll see you around,” I said. I turned and headed for the door leading to the lower level.

  “Nick.” His deep voice stopped my progress.

  I turned to face him. “Yeah?”

  “When is your shift over?”

  My fingers curved into a fist in my pocket, my nails digging hard into my palm. He’d asked a basic question. I could give a basic answer. “Noon,” I told him.

  He nodded. “You have lunch plans?”

  “No,” I blurted. “What did you have in mind?” My mind was rapidly shuffling through a zillion sex images, all of them involving Josh and my tongue. I bit down hard on my tongue even though it wasn’t its fault I wanted to use it so dirtily.

  No control. None. Zero. Hadn’t I just decided I wasn’t going to do this?

  But when Prince Whatshisname shows up on your turf being all princely and charming and then asks you to lunch, you fucking say yes.

  “Want to meet out front a little after noon?”

  I nodded.

  “See you then,” he said.

  I nodded again and hurried to the stairs.

  Chapter Six

  Josh

  I WAS SITTING on the Green waiting for Nick. It was twenty minutes past noon and looking like he was gonna be a no-show. While I’d been waiting, I’d been entertaining myself by tallying all the ways I was not a washed-up loser.

  I was not a washed-up loser just because I’d injured my foot and hadn’t been able to work out properly in forever. I was not a washed-up loser just because I was a few years older—but felt twenty or thirty years older—than the students hanging out on the Green today. I was not a washed-up loser just because I’d been stood up by a smoldering-hot cocky kid I’d obviously failed to impress during the one and only hookup I’d had in the last few years.

  Nope, I was a loser for thinking about all this shit for the last twenty minutes. Jesus. Get a life, Pahlke.

  My jaw was sore. I was on my second piece of Big Red since I’d left the library. I headed for one of the fancy wrought-iron trashcans on one corner of the Green and had just tossed the evidence of my nerves in the can, when a Frisbee beaned me in the back of the head. It hurt like hell—I looked over my shoulder to see a guilty-looking dude with zero skills jogging toward me—but I laughed as I picked up the neon-pink disc and chucked it back to him.

  “Sorry, man!” He caught it with a lot more grace than he’d thrown it. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” I rubbed the sore spot with my knuckles. “I think I needed the jolt.”

  He laughed. “Any time.” He saluted and loped toward a more open spot on the grass, waving his buddies over. Obviously the errant throw had been a fluke. He moved well. The way his powerful shoulders gleamed and flexed under the sun was worthy of admiration. He reminded me of my ex. I plopped down on a nearby bench so I could watch him and his pals. Hard not to think of how many times I’d played ultimate with my friends in the same space. It was also hard not to think about how—and why—I had no interest in taking off my shirt, rolling up my pants and joining them. Would’ve done it in a flash a couple years ago. Weird.

  Was coming back here gonna be a two-year exercise in realizing all the ways I didn’t fit in anymore? Because that would suck.

  I propped my elbows on my knees, forcing my brain to think about lunch. A lonely lunch…

  “Admit it,” a whispery voice said.

  I squinted up at Nick. I couldn’t control my grin or the big thump my heart rapped out against my ribcage. “Admit what?”

  “You came back to Ellery for the hot boys and not a history fellowship.” He sat next to me and flicked a hand at the Frisbee-playing dudes.

  I laughed. “Busted.” I tipped my head toward the Frisbee players. “Nothing beats an Ellery jock, right?” My only interest in those guys was the nice view, but I couldn’t resist teasing Cocky Kid.

  He made a show of checking out the shirtless dudes, stretching out his long legs, hooking his thumbs in the belt loops of his cutoffs and slowly running the tip of his tongue over his lower lip.

  My own lips twitched as I watched him pose. What did it mean that his skinny legs, scruffy chin and messy hair were making me think of many, many more hot and sweaty thoughts than a crew of ultimate-playing, half-naked, muscle-bound hotties? And why the hell had I asked this kid to lunch?

  Another example of my new headspace not fitting with the old.

  “Nah,” he said. “I’ve beaten off quite a few Ellery jocks.” He cast a glance my way and winked.

  “Ha.” I stood and he did too. I watched with too much interest as he removed the rubber band from his hair and shook out his waves. The smile on his face turned smirky as he shoved the band into his messenger bag. He knew he had my complete attention.

  “Hungry?” I asked. His lip curled as he performed a slow survey of my body. When he didn’t say anything, I smiled and asked, “Do you do this with everyone?”

  “What?”

  “Turn every conversation into foreplay.”

  He tipped his face toward the Frisbee dudes. “Not everyone.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know if I should feel complimented or not.”

  I was still smiling when I said it, but he didn’t act like he saw the humor because he shrugged and said, “Look, I’ve got a bunch of shit I should probably take care of back at my house. It’s not the best time—”

  “Nah, come on.” I reached for his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “Let me feed you. I’m all proud of mysel
f because I went to the grocery store last night.”

  I thought he was gonna refuse. He even took a tentative step away from me. Then he said, “You’re not a vegan, are you?”

  “Nope. I’m a protein hound.” I leered at him. “I need all the lean meats I can get.”

  He rewarded me with his cute giggle-snort—the one I was learning he tried to cover up. “Now who’s laying on the innuendo?”

  “I’ll even show you my etchings,” I told him.

  “Okay, man. Can’t refuse that one. I actually like etchings.”

  We headed down the sidewalk and away from the Green. He answered all my questions about the library and some of the changes I’d noticed since I was there last. I was coaxing some good info out of him about what kind of research he was interested in on a personal level—political art and French Romanticism (which made complete sense to me as I watched his dark eyes gleam and his rings glitter as he gestured enthusiastically)—when he slowed his steps and looked around.

  We were past the last grouping of dorms on the north side of campus and had entered the posh residential area sandwiched between the Ellery golf course and the recreational pond students used for skating, kayaking and getting naked during festive and unfestive occasions.

  “Where the hell do you live?” he asked.

  “Promise not to hate me?”

  “Um…” He tipped his head, looking at me as if he were seriously considering the question.

  I socked him in the arm and then kept walking. “Can’t come see the most rad crib on the planet if you don’t promise.”

  “Hey,” he called from behind me. “Blackmail isn’t nice, you know.”

  I laughed and continued up the sidewalk.

  He caught up with me as I turned up a steep driveway secluded by a big maple and a couple of overgrown lilacs. I gave him a side-eye. “I don’t hear you promising.”