Lost on the Way

by Isabel Jolie

I thought my heart was going to explode within my chest. Yes, we often end up like this at the end of movie nights. We’ll start the evening out on opposite ends and somehow, he’ll stretch out, and then I’ll stretch, and then he’ll slide in behind me so his feet aren’t in my face. It’s my absolute favorite way to fall asleep.

  The salesperson came up and assumed we were a couple. She walked right up to us, overlooked our shoes lying on the floor model, and said, “Looks like we have a winner.”

  Tonight, Jason and I find ourselves spooning once again. His leg has found a way between mine, and there’s a blanket over us. His hand rests on my hip, and every now and then his breath flutters across my ear. I lost focus on the show ages ago. Of course, Jason is entranced by the movie. I shift my hips back against him, without intent, as I squeeze my thighs together. My movement is subtle, but strong, teasing my core.

  Then I hear it. A low, guttural moan. I roll my hips back again, and I shift because I’m almost positive he has an erection pressed against me. But he doesn’t see me that way, does he?

  I roll my body back, just enough that I can look up at him. He strokes along my stomach, below my shirt on my bare skin. Time crawls to a stop. This is the moment when it’s all going to change. He’s going to kiss me. And we’re both sober. This is the moment when our friendship grows into something more.

  Those hypnotic chestnut irises draw me in. I reach up, and ever so softly, my thumb scrapes the line of his rough chiseled jaw, then my fingers graze his coppery strands. His lips are inches from mine, and his breath is shallow. I stretch, flexing against him.

  Without warning, he jerks off the sofa onto his feet, and I land with a thud on the floor.

  “Shit, sorry.”

  I now have a clear view of the underside of his coffee table. He extends a hand to help me up. So, no kiss, then. I shouldn’t expect more. Shouldn’t get my hopes up. I know better. I pull my legs under me and decline his hand, using the coffee table as support to push myself up. I keep my head down, gaze riveted to the floor, avoiding Jason. My cheeks radiate heat.

  His face flushes red. Anger? Embarrassment? That’s the thing with a redhead, or ginger, as I like to call him. I know he’s affected; his pale skin color reveals that much. What’s running through his mind? As well as I know him, I can’t always tell.

  “It’s late. I should get outta here.” I exhale loudly and pat my jeans down, all the while visually inspecting the frayed knotted rug on his floor.

  “Maggie.” He says my name with a pleading sound as if he’s begging me for something.

  He stands two feet in front of me, gazing down at me with a sympathetic expression. I’m not sure how he’s feeling, but I am most definitely embarrassed. I charge to the door, grab my pocketbook, then lean down to pull on my boots. The pocketbook strap trails off my arm and crashes against the wall.

  He reaches down and picks it up. He stands there, patiently waiting, silent, as I pull on my boots. I reach for my pocketbook, but he holds it higher in the air, away from me.

  “Maggie, you know I love you, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “We can’t. We can’t go there. You’re my best friend. I can’t lose you. And we haven’t talked about it. Not really. But we can’t have a repeat of what happened the other night. You understand that, right?”

  “Yes. You don’t think of me that way. I’m like—”

  “Wait. You think I don’t think of you like that? I’m alive, Maggie. Hell, every guy on the planet who sees you thinks of you like that. But, Maggie,” he reaches out and tugs on my chin, forcing me to look up, “you are so much more than that. You deserve more than that. More than what I can give you. You deserve it all. And I just…we just…we gotta hold on to our friendship. I can’t let other urges get in the way of that.” He stops, scratches his beard, and after a pause, lets out a subdued chuckle. “Hell, Adam would kill me. You know that.”

  Adam. He’s the one who will never let him go. And maybe that’s what will always be between us. I close my eyes, reeling a bit. A desire to get away from this apartment, away from Jason and his rejection, builds, and I reach for the doorknob. “I understand.”

  “Maggie,” he pleads.

  “No worries. I understand. See you tomorrow.” I give him my warmest, most comforting smile.

  Jason lives two blocks away from me. When we first made plans to move to the city, we did consider moving in together. But, right out of college, my parents pushed for me to find a female roommate. Jason bought the place he’s living in, and I found Yara’s ad looking for a roommate in a place conveniently close to Jason’s. In a little last laugh on my parent’s kind of thing, Yara ended up being a lesbian. Her sexuality has never been an issue between us at all. But I did have fun shocking my conservative Midwest parentals with that bit of information.

  Sometimes I wonder if I had moved in with him, if my parents hadn’t interfered, would we still be in the same situation? Or would the constant proximity in a small city apartment have forced intimacy? One thing’s for sure. If we were living together, his apartment would be better decorated.

  Every guy on the planet who sees you thinks of you like that. Yet, in the friend’s box we remain.

  The heavy apartment door shuts behind me as my back pocket vibrates. I pull my phone out and see it’s my sister.

  “Hey, Zoe.”

  “How’s it going?”

  I sigh as I make my way down the city sidewalk, holding my breath as I near a pile of black garbage bags awaiting pickup. A guy on an electric scooter zips by and flashes me a look as if I’m the one who shouldn’t be on the sidewalk. Instead of turning onto Manhattan Avenue, I go straight across 116th Street. Morningside Park calls my name.

  “Fine,” I blurt out.

  There’s a pause, then with a sarcastic bite that’s all Zoe, “Yep. Sounds like it.”

  Artificial lights shine on the sidewalk and streets, creating a well-lit thoroughfare. There’s an empty park bench below a black iron streetlight, and I plop onto it. The quiet abandoned playground reminds me it’s late, and climbing the steep park stairs by myself at this time of evening wouldn’t be particularly smart. The prospect of going home to face Yara doesn’t appeal to me either, though. I’ve already got Zoe on the phone. I’m not feeling strong enough to take the one-two punch. The silence across the line must tip off my intuitive sister.

  “Hey…something’s wrong. What’s going on?” Concern drips off every word.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “Is it Jason?”

  I nod, fully aware she can’t see me but fairly certain she senses my answer. We live far apart, but we’ll always be close.

  “Sweetie, one-sided love sucks.” The headlights of vehicles passing down Morningside Avenue blur. To hold the pesky tears in, I blink and inhale deeply.

  “Come home. At least move to Chicago if Iowa isn’t calling to you. It’s time. Time to put some space between the two of you.”

  I barely enunciate the words. “But I love him.” Somehow, my sister hears me.

  “I know, sweetie. But don’t you want more? Someone who loves you fully, the way you deserve to be loved? Kids? He’s never gonna give you that. Ever. If it was going to happen, it would have happened by now. I know you love him, but this isn’t healthy. You guys slipped past healthy years ago.”

  Her words are hard to hear, but she says them so softly, and with such tenderness, they feel comforting. I swallow, lift my head to the sky, close my eyes, and ask her about home.

  Chapter 9

  Jason

  The Days at Hospice

  Adam texted to tell me he’d been admitted to hospice. I’ll never forget the day. September. Sophomore year. The temperature high registered a brisk sixty-two degrees.

  I’d spent the summer in Texas. Finished chemo. Adam and I texted some. Not much. He’d been a bit MIA as school approached. Nothing unusual for summer break. I knew he and Maggie had driven cross-country. I figured he’d been
having an amazing summer. And expected when we got back to school, he, Maggie, and I would hang out some, once we got into a routine, if they felt like having a third wheel. I’d texted him a few times, but he hadn’t yet responded. I’d thought he was just busy, getting acclimated to a new year.

  The text said to call if I got a chance. He’d like to say goodbye. Who the fuck sends a text like that? I’d like to say goodbye.

  I couldn’t call him. A phone call felt inadequate. And the last I’d seen him, he’d looked healthy. Healthier than me. He wasn’t headed to treatments all summer.

  I hopped a plane to California. His roommate gave me his mom’s number, and she told me where to find him. From the outside, the building looked like a home with a parking lot. The black asphalt lot that surrounded the building, butting up to the front and sides, was the only element that made it clear it was a business. Well, the asphalt, six handicapped parking spots, and the small rectangular sign that read Southern California Hospice.

  The wide entry hall opened into an area that felt like a den in someone’s home. Comfortable couches and chairs. An empty brick fireplace against one wall. To the far side, a woman sat behind a reception counter. I ignored her, because my gaze fell on Maggie.

  I hadn’t reached out to her in my rush to get here. Didn’t know she’d be here, in California. I mean, it made sense. She’d spent the summer with him.

  Seeing her wasn’t something I’d prepared for. I was struck by how alone she looked. The brown leather club chair she sat in dwarfed her. Swollen, bloodshot eyes and mottled cheeks. When I approached, she seemed relieved to see a familiar person. She wrapped her arms around me and buried her face against my chest.

  Visitors filled Adam’s room. His parents, relatives. Probably more than one minister. There was a constant stream of people in and out, producing a low hum of conversation. Most were adults far older than us. Maybe the adults had lived long enough to know what to say. Because back then, as a college student, I sure as shit didn’t know what to say.

  When I walked into his room, he looked surprised. Then he grinned. Said something about he should have known when I didn’t respond that meant I was on my way.

  He looked like an old man in that bed. It’s amazing how much cancer ages you toward the end. So thin. Frail. There were no tubes or beeping devices. No. In hospice, all those annoyances are gone. It’s peaceful, compared to a hospital. Hospice is all about making the patient comfortable for their last days. It sucked. The whole thing sucked.

  Adam’s mom. She was nice enough to me. She and his dad let me have a few moments alone with him. She was noticeably colder to Maggie. Adam ignored it, and I didn’t blame him. He had enough to deal with without trying to solve some issues between his mom and Mags.

  Adam, he was surrounded by people he loved. And every single one of them treated Maggie like they didn’t know her. I guess they didn’t. She wasn’t family. She wasn’t from there. Didn’t grow up with him. But she loved him. You’d think that would be enough.

  Some people were just unaware. Absorbed in the sadness—in the wrongness—of having to say goodbye to a college kid. But there was more there between his mom and her. Since Adam wasn’t protecting her, I did. I stood by her.

  It’d be great to say Adam and I had some profound exchange. I guess because we both had been facing the same shit, we got each other. From whispered exchanges outside of his room, I gathered that his cancer had spread. Everywhere.

  I’d be lying if I said a part of me didn’t want to ask about more specifics about his treatment. Make sure my doctor had recommended a different course of action than his had. Find out what he did that didn’t work, because there had to be a reason for him to be so sick, right? Somehow his doctor must have screwed up. If we’d been back at school, I probably would have drilled him with questions. But in that room, with him in that bed…no.

  I’d like to say we were by his bedside when he passed. But it didn’t happen as quickly as they thought. He hung on for several weeks. Maggie and I stayed for a week, but we needed to get back to school. To life. He was asleep a lot, anyway. Drug-induced, probably. But still, his parents encouraged us to go back to school, and we did.

  At one point, a rare moment when we were alone, Adam did tell me to look out for Maggie. His exact words were something like, “She may need a friend. She’s a good one.” He got that last part wrong, though. She’s the best.

  Chapter 10

  Maggie

  “Earth to Maggie…”

  On reflex, my wandering mind returns from people watching along Broadway, and my cheeks warm in embarrassment. I’ve been staring out the window. When I agreed to meet Dave here, I knew I wouldn’t be great company, but I thought we’d be with the Team-In-Training group and I could blend in. As it turns out, I must not’ve paid attention to his text, and it’s just the two of us. I grimace. “Sorry.”

  “No problem. Everything okay? You look stressed.”

  “Stuff at work.” The red wine he selected has hints of blackberries that linger after each sip. It’s a lighter red than the cabernet sauvignon I generally prefer, but I’ve come to expect that from many of the French wines. Dave commandeered the wine list the minute we sat down. Given Le Pif has close to forty wines by the glass, I had no issue ceding drink selection. This evening, any of the wines on the menu will meet my objective to unwind.

  Dave watches me, his arm extended on the table, his hand inches from mine. I rest my elbows on the table and cup the bulb of the wine glass.

  “That’s a pretty sad face for it to be stuff at work.”

  For a moment, I study Dave. He’s a good-looking guy. Thick, dark blond hair, cut short but long enough that it’s a little unruly, and monotone brown eyes. He’s tall and lean. I know enough about him to know he’s a really good guy. This is his fourth Team-In-Training fundraiser, and he’s already raised over fifteen thousand dollars from family, friends, and businesses for this singular event. As I’m taking him in, it occurs to me I don’t know what he does. Our connection has been training.

  He reaches out and lightly touches my hand. “Maggie?”

  “Sorry.” I smile and release the wine glass, place my palms flat on my thighs, and lean back. “My head’s just off in la-la land.” It’s a half-truth. He deserves a better explanation for my absentee behavior. “I keep running through everything I still need to do on a grant application that’s due soon.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, prove we’re doing a good job of managing our finances. That if given the grant, we’ll make each dollar go far. This one’s asking for more than normal, so I don’t have the information at my fingertips. Year-to-date financials. Nothing you want to hear about.”

  “You guys don’t employ an accountant?”

  “No. We have six full-time employees. The accountant we use volunteers his time, and he’s an executive.”

  “Well, I’m not an accountant, but I do have a friend who might be willing to help.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got a friend helping me.” Said friend just happens to be emotionally unavailable and is the real reason I’m in a funk. It’ll pass. It always does. I sense Dave’s struggling with something to say, so I help him out by asking him what he does for a living. The conversation tactic works, and he carries the conversation forward. As he’s talking, my phone lights up on the table.

  Jason: Want to order from Pasta Fari tonight?

  I lift my phone to respond to Jason while nodding and smiling to Dave so he’ll know to continue talking.

  Maggie: Can’t. Out to dinner.

  Three dots come and go, and I listen to Dave while keeping an eye on the dots. Within seconds, his reply appears.

  Jason: With who?

  Maggie: Dave.

  This time the dots appear and disappear. Dave has finished talking, so I smile and ask him, “So, where did you say you’re from?”

  He smiles. “I don’t think I did. Minnesota.”

  “Oh, wow. Do you m
iss it?”

  Jason: Have the numbers to go over with you. Have some questions.

  I push the phone away from me, but have it set where I can see any more texts that come through. Dave leans forward, telling me all about ice fishing.

  “You’d love it.”

  “Sitting on ice? Doesn’t particularly sound like my kind of thing.”

  “We bring chairs. You’d be comfortable. My sisters join us sometimes.”

  “What about the fish?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Isn’t it kind of cruel? They’re in survival mode, existing in the harshest of temperatures, and they get a glance at food, and then they’re pulled up to the surface, and they die.” It’s awful the more I think about it, about what the fish must be feeling, the excitement and then a painful hook.

  “It’s not like that. I promise. The fish don’t have brains.”

  He’s smiling at me like he thinks I’m being cute. I glance around the place, wishing for some of my teammates. No other conversational cues spring to mind, so I push forward with the distasteful topic at hand.

  “Tell me about your best ice fishing trip.” He relaxes into his seat and falls into entertainer mode. My heart’s not in the conversation, but his willingness to continue talking with the slightest prompt from me is appreciated. If he wasn’t so talkative, with the way I’m feeling, we’d be staring at our wine glasses in silence.

  Jason: Are you on a date?

  My chest freezes. My focus centers around the rectangular device on the table and the words on the screen. Could he be jealous? I’d be a disaster if he were on a date. I snap up my phone to respond.

  Maggie: No. Team in Training.

  Jason: Come by after?

  Maggie: Not sure what time I’ll be done.

  Jason: Where are you? I can join.

  Maggie: Le Pif

  Jason: Broadway and 71st?

  A sound from across the table distracts me from my text exchange. At some point, Dave stopped talking.