by Isabel Jolie
Isabel Jolie
Lost on the Way
First published by Noctivity, Inc. 2020
Copyright © 2020 by Isabel Jolie
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Isabel Jolie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Isabel Jolie has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-7348497-3-8
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue: Jason
Epilogue: Maggie
Notes & Acknowledgements
The McLoughlin Charity
Sneak Peek - Chasing Frost
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
About the Author
Also by Isabel Jolie
Chapter 1
Jason
The light cracking through the window hits me like a laser beam splitting my skull open. Pain lances through my head. My arm aches, and a thousand needles stab repeatedly. I flex my fingers. And freeze.
A mass of brown strands rest on the crook of my arm. Messy, bedridden hair hides her face. Holy. Fuck. What have I done?
The rumpled white sheet falls below her bare waist and continues onto mine. Her porcelain skin shimmers in the light, and her long brown hair winds down her chest. The tawny orb of her nipple peeks under the mahogany locks, and a flashback of my mouth on that very nipple has me twisting away and jumping out of bed.
I stumble into a wall, my morning wood sticking out like a welcoming flag, and cringe, looking over my shoulder to see if my sudden departure woke her. She shifts onto her stomach, and her hair tumbles downward, covering her shoulder. On a silent exhale, I pick up my boxers from the floor, and stumble to the kitchen.
Fuck. What the hell? There were drinks—I remember drinks. Tequila. I told her I’d never done a body shot before. She shrieked and unbuttoned her white shirt, displaying her lace bra. That naughty bra I’ve wondered about because you can see the edge of the lace through her white t-shirts. I’ve wondered if it’s sheer or lightly padded. It’s sheer.
I push the button on the coffee machine and close my eyes. The outline of her nipples through that bra comes to mind. My tongue licking up the salt and lime. How badly I wanted to reach up and hold those two palm-size breasts, perky and erect. How good they tasted…no, she tasted.
My hold on the counter tightens as I aim to shake those thoughts. The coffee drips slowly, filling up the glass pot. I watch each drop, teeth grinding, as anger at what I’ve done, what I let happen, resonates. A vision of me pounding her, her legs around me, hits me hard. My life. Fucked by tequila. I spin around as if making a one-eighty will eliminate the memory.
She’s standing there, her back to the counter, watching me. I didn’t hear her come in. She’s wearing an old t-shirt of mine, and it falls mid-thigh. She’s not wearing a bra.
Determining if Maggie’s wearing a bra, and if so, what kind of bra, is the one pastime I’ve allowed myself over the years. Really, that’s Adam’s fault. There was this nurse. Unbelievably, named Nurse Florence, but she let us call her Nurse Flo. That woman could deadlift me. And she had breasts. Massive ones. That’s what started Adam and his game. Not so much to do in a hospital bed.
“Hey, what size bra do you think Nurse Flo wears?” The two of us laughed like juvenile eight-year-olds over that stupid question. We Googled it. No. Google wasn’t so big back then. We Yahooed that shit. The game kind of grew from there. Pervy, but it passed the time. Now, it’s a habit—a habit that somehow evolved into “guess which kind of bra Maggie is wearing today.” Her breasts are on the smaller side, but if she’s wearing a padded push-up, she has more contours and becomes a C cup. But I prefer the smooth, thin bras. If she’s wearing a soft cotton shirt, sometimes her nipples point, and the outline can be seen through the thin fabric. The absolute best is no bra. Obviously.
Thinking back on the “what-size” day has me smirking a bit, even though my world is upside down right now. Mags smiles too, as if she’s in my head, reliving that memory of me and Adam bored in our hospital gowns. But nah, that’s a world she doesn’t really get. Can’t get. Although not for her lack of trying. May she never, ever know.
I rub my fingers through my hair, staring at her. Even hungover, she’s adorable. Fuck. Adam.
She rotates her foot on the floor. “Coffee?” she asks, timid. I turn back around to get a mug, cursing myself. This is why I’ve never let this shit happen. I mix in a Stevia pack and skim milk, stir, and give it to her, while staring at the large tile squares butting up to the corner cabinets. A film of gray dust darkens the edge.
Maggie lifts the mug to her mouth, sips, then sets it down on the counter. She steps to the refrigerator and pulls out the half-gallon of fresh-squeezed juice. She’s so hungover she can’t drink coffee. That’s telling.
She pours herself a tall glass of an orange concoction. It’s a blend of carrot, lemon, apple, banana, kale, and honey. She read somewhere it boosts immunity. She keeps my fridge stocked with the stuff. Ever since we moved to New York, she’s done it. Back at college in New Hampshire, we’d meet up for coffee first, then after our first class, hit the juice place. Freshly squeezed vegetables. Maggie’s nirvana.
She’s stayed over tons. So, of course, she knows where my clothes are and her way around the kitchen. Twelve years of friendship. I’ve been good. Never strayed. Made a move. When her arm lifts to tilt the glass back and empty it, the hem of the t-shirt rises, and her smooth, lean thigh catches my eye. Now I know firsthand just how silky smooth that skin is.
“Jason, please…. Jason, right there… Jase… Jase, fuck.” H
er words from last night punch me in the gut like a series of one-two jabs. My grip on my coffee cup tightens as the memory of sliding into her courses through me. How good, warm, tight she felt. Fuck. I stare at the popcorn ceiling. Did we use a condom? I was drunk. But not too drunk. Obviously. Fuck.
She finishes her glass and rinses it, then sets it in the dishwasher. When she turns to face me, I grimace. “Did we use a condom?” Shit. This is Mags. My best friend in the whole fucking world. Adam’s girl.
Those brown-bronze eyes cast downward, a hint of pink along her cheekbones, below her smattering of freckles. Freckles. She and I share freckles in common. Her chest rises before she answers. “I don’t think so.”
“Should we go get a morning-after pill?”
Her gaze drops to the floor, and fuck if guilt doesn’t pour through me, a weight pulling me down, drowning me. She stares at her socks when she answers. “No. I don’t think so. The timing’s not right.” She mumbles something that sounds like something, something, “period tracker.”
Then she’s running down the hall, and it’s as if she’s running away from me. She flings the bathroom door open, and I hear her gag. Fuck. This is how hungover she is. I step into the small half bath and bend down to pull her hair back. Not the first time I’ve done this.
When she stands, I run warm water over a washcloth and gently swab at her mouth. She bats my hand away, and I pull her to me to hold her tight. “Hey, we’re okay, right? Still friends?”
Her head brushes against my chest as she nods, and the vise on my chest loosens. I relax my hold on her to lead her back to the bathroom attached to my bedroom. I pull out her toothbrush from the small drawer below the counter where I store it, should she ever need it, run it under the water, put some toothpaste on it, and pass it to her. Then I close the bathroom door behind me because she’ll want privacy.
As I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, the framed picture on top of my dresser seizes my attention. It’s a photo of Adam, Maggie, and me. The car behind us is Adam’s black Jeep, fully loaded with both Adam’s and Maggie’s stuff. They left that day for a summer cross-country road trip, touring the Great Lakes and doing whatever else to reach his home in California. We’re all smiling. Happy. Freshman year at Dartmouth behind us. Maggie gave it to me for Christmas the following year. A couple of months after the funeral.
The bathroom door opens. Maggie slips out and gathers her clothes from the floor. Her bra lies half-draped on the lampshade, and she lifts it, her back to me. Without speaking a word, she returns to the bathroom and closes the door.
I head to the kitchen for a fresh cup of coffee. I’m pouring milk into my mug when Maggie calls from the apartment door, “I’m gonna head out. See you later, okay?”
The door closes before I can respond. I tilt my head back until it hits the wall behind me. Fuck!
On a normal hungover day, she’d stay. We’d groan, swear to never drink again, order in a greasy early lunch, then Netflix it on the couch all afternoon.
And now she’s gone. My head throbs, and my stomach lurches with a queasiness I’m far too familiar with. What the hell have I done?
Chapter 2
Maggie
I tap lightly on Yara’s bedroom door then push it open when I hear, “Come in.” Yara’s leaning back on several stacked pillows, snuggled below comforters, the glow from her phone the only light source. With extra care, I set the brown cardboard coffee-holder down on her mattress, along with the white bag holding the breakfast I picked up during my walk of shame home, and raise the blinds in the room.
“What the hell happened to you?” Yara, my longtime roommate, asks while she lifts her coffee out of the tray.
I grab one of her pillows, drop onto her bed, and bury my face in the downy softness.
“That bad, huh?”
I whimper then sit up and pull the pillow into my lap. I grab my coffee and grimace before opening up. “It happened.”
Yara sips her coffee and squints as she studies me. I haven’t actually looked in a mirror, but I’m assuming she’s noticing that the bun on top of my head consists of a twisted rat’s nest. She leans forward and runs a finger across my neck. “Is that a hickey?”
Fuck. I hop off the bed and stand before her dresser, shifting in the light. There’s an odd-shaped reddish formation at the base of my neck, and as I twist to the side, there’s another similar marking below my ear. Damnit, Jason. I work with children.
Yara leans back on the bed and chomps on the buttered bagel I brought back for her. While chewing, she connects the dots and shrieks, “Holy shit! It happened. You and Jason finally did the deed. It’s about damn time.”
I study the markings on my neck a moment longer before collapsing on the bed beside her and cover my face with my hands. If this day could just go away, that would be fantastic.
Yara lifts my arm and peers down at me. “Not so good?”
“I don’t know. I just…don’t know. He asked me if we used a condom. That was, like, the first thing he said to me. I don’t think that’s a good sign, do you? That’s more of a ‘wow, we really screwed the pooch’ comment if I ever heard one.”
Yara slows down chewing her bagel and passes me my coffee. I take it from her and set it on the side table. I crave the warmth and the smell, but my stomach’s not feeling up for it quite yet. There’s a whole lot of nausea going on in this belly of mine. Yara swallows.
“What else did you guys talk about? And did you use a condom?”
“I don’t think so. Last night, I didn’t care. I mean, he’s been my best friend since college. Last night, I couldn’t believe it was finally happening.” There’s a loose thread protruding from the paisley pink and green quilt that covers Yara’s bed, and I pick at it. “He asked if we should go get the morning-after pill.” The thread snaps, leaving a minuscule hole in her quilt. “I said no. My period tracker. I mean, I knew I was safe, but there was something about him asking me that question that just hurt.” I lift my head and look at Yara. She’s stopped eating and is staring at me. “He was being responsible. It shouldn’t hurt me.” I fall back onto her pillow and stare at the circular ceiling light.
“And why no morning-after pill?”
I flip my phone over to show her the squares on the period tracker. “It’s not the right time.”
“I’m not sure I’d trust that.” She’s staring at it like it’s moldy food.
“Catholics around the world do.”
“Yeah, and they’re notorious for large families.”
“Not anymore.”
“Yeah, that’s because they use birth control now.”
I close my eyes. Done with this conversation.
“Oh, Mags. You’ve been wanting this for years. What else did he say?”
“Nothing. I got dressed and left before he could say anything else.”
Yara takes another bite of her bagel. Then she opens the bag, pulls out the remaining buttered bagel, unwraps the silver foil, and passes it to me.
We sit there on her bed. Yara watches over me with a solemn expression as I consume the greasy buttered bagel.
My phone vibrates, and Yara leans forward to read the incoming text message. She passes the phone to me. “Someone’s worried about you.”
Jason? I lurch forward way too fast, and my throbbing head rebels. I snatch the phone from her.
Dave - TNT: Missed you this morning. All okay?
I toss the phone down on the bed with a grunt. It’s a guy from our team. Every year, I choose a Team-In-Training event to raise money to fight cancer. This year, I’m training for a century ride in Ireland. The event isn’t until the spring of next year, though, so I have plenty of time. Our group just met up to start training two weeks ago. This guy, like me, has done several of these events.
This morning, however, was not a training morning. There was no way on god’s green earth I was riding twenty miles on my bike this morning. I stare at the dark glass screen with a mild degree of trepid
ation, as if it might eviscerate me, then pick it back up and scroll through my texts, double-checking there are no other new ones, then toss it on the bed and lie back down.
“So, what’s your next step with Jason?”
“I don’t know. Just wait and see what he does? I’ve wanted this for so long, but in my dreams, the morning after was good and normal. We’d stay in bed and hang out together for the day. It wasn’t supposed to feel weird.”
“And it did?”
I exhale loudly and rest my arm across my forehead to block the sun. “So weird.”
In her chipper, hopeful, too-loud-for-my-pounding-head voice, Yara says, “Well, maybe there’s just gonna be an adjustment period? You know? Like, maybe some time is needed for it to sink in, and then you’ll both realize this is the natural progression for your relationship. By this weekend, you guys will be one of those couples who are basically living together.”
I lift my arm and scowl at her as she reads on her phone. “You think?”
“Well, yeah. It could happen. You two should be together. Everyone assumes you’re together. You already get couple-invited everywhere.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that no one invites you without assuming he might come too. And vice versa. You’ve been coupled for years. I’ve met people who were shocked to find out you guys were just friends.”
“Me too.” Nothing new there. I stay over at his place all the time. One of his neighbors came out in the hall one morning exclaiming, “Busted you!” Yeah, yeah. People might not believe me, but we’re as platonic as platonic can be. Or at least we were until last night. He just doesn’t see me that way. To Jason, I’m good ol’ Mags. I search my hazy memory, trying to remember what the heck happened last night that had him kissing me and us getting naked. Tequila. Why on Earth did we do shots?
Yara taps my leg to get my attention. “Hey, Jason’s an idiot if he tries to keep this in the friend zone. But if he does, you should consider Dave.”
“The TNT guy?” Yara nods. She met him when my team gathered at The Dead Poet, a small Irish pub, for beers one day after work. He’s nice. He’s raising money for cancer research—of course, he’s nice. “But don’t you think I should wait and see how things work out with Jason? I mean, I know nothing is really going to happen. He doesn’t see me that way. But…just in case I’m wrong. I should give it at least this week, right?”