Flirting with Forever

by Cara Bastone

  “Wow,” John whispered.

  “Anyway. I still lived out in Connecticut in my hometown, but after I inherited the store and the apartment, it was a no-brainer to come here.”

  Plus, Cora’s accident had happened and Mary had found that there was no way to stay away from Matty. But she didn’t think that John needed to hear every sorry detail of how hard the last six years had been for her.

  “Anyways, I took about six months to sort of revamp the shop and build up some inventory and renovate, and the rest is history.”

  “What did the shop used to be?”

  “Oh, Aunt Tiff was a real free spirit. It was a hippie shop. All the usual suspects. Incense, crappy essential oils, big turquoise rings.”

  “Tibetan carvings?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Actually,” John said as he squinted his eyes, “I think I’d been in there before. Sometime in high school. I was looking for a present for my girlfriend’s birthday.” Recognition sparked in his eyes. “Was your aunt blond? Like you?”

  Mary nodded.

  “Did she wear, like, muumuus?”

  Mary nodded again, this time laughing and tearing up at the same time.

  “I’m pretty sure I met her, then. She talked me into buying Julie this big necklace thingy.”

  Mary laughed again. “Tiff was quite the saleswoman.” Her words were almost strangled, weighted down by the emotion they had to squeeze through to get out of her mouth. John had met Tiff. John and Tiff had spoken at one point. It was a gift to hear this story, like one more stolen moment with a woman whom Mary would never speak to again.

  “I’m sorry,” John said again, this time in a low voice. He slid his hand across the table and pressed his heavy fingers to Mary’s forearm for just a sliver of a second.

  “No, no, it’s okay.” Mary waved off his words. “It’s just been a really long day.”

  They’d both eaten very fast, so John cleared their plates, found some clean towels and efficiently changed the sheets on his bed.

  He tucked some clothes under his elbow and rocked on his heels, his hands in his pockets. “I just want you to know that this building is extremely secure. If you’re worried, though, throw the dead bolts after I leave. And, as I’m sure you noticed, if you yell for me from my apartment, I’ll definitely hear you next door.”

  He flashed her a quick, sheepish smile, and it made Mary want to weep. Even stuff that felt good felt bad. She was flayed open, tired and vulnerable and wanting every last drop of John’s goodness right now. He’d sleep with her in the bed if she asked him. She knew it. He was just that kind of friend. He’d hold her hand if she wanted. He’d watch a movie and let her curl up on his lap like Ruth.

  Different stages of life.

  But it would all be because this terrible thing had happened to her shop. He was a good friend looking for any way to comfort her. She wanted John, wished very much that he wanted her too, but she wouldn’t use this situation to her advantage. She refused to let the men who’d trashed her shop be responsible for her trashing her relationship with her new friend. Because if she took from him tonight, she was certain that things would be awkward tomorrow. She knew it.

  And more than anything, she needed things to be okay when she opened her eyes in the morning. She wanted to feel refreshed and relieved to be where she was. Which meant that she needed to lean on John an appropriate amount right now. No matter the fact that his top button was loose and she really wouldn’t have minded pressing her lips to that golden triangle at the bottom of his throat.

  “Okay,” she eventually said, somewhat scratchily. She wasn’t sure if she was responding to what he’d said or if she was fortifying herself.

  “You don’t mind having Ruth around? She’ll probably sleep up on the bed with you.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  He cleared his throat. “Okay. I’ll come back in the morning. We’ll get your door fixed.” He lingered at his door for just a beat. “Good night, Mary.”

  “Good night, John.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TURNED OUT, SHE WAS both refreshed and relieved when she woke up the next morning. After John had left last night, she’d quickly showered, yanked her shorts and cami on and practically face-planted into the bed. She’d been out like a light. Around 2:00 a.m., a noise on the street below had woken Mary from a dead sleep, but then Ruth was there, stretched out along Mary’s side, her tail flicking curiously, and Mary was soothed enough to fall back asleep.

  But now it was 7:00 a.m., she had a full night’s rest under her belt, the fog of yesterday starting to recede, and it was fully setting in just where exactly Mary was.

  She was in John’s apartment. John’s bed.

  It was such a strange intimacy to be in someone’s bed without them. Almost as if they were there, or some shadowy ghost of them was there. Mary knew that John did not lay behind her on the other pillow, but she caught the faint strains of deodorant and detergent and aftershave, and she felt his presence anyhow. This was the ceiling that John looked at each morning. Those were the bonging, reverent tones of the church down the street that John listened to upon the turn of each hour. Here were John’s worn cotton sheets, so soft after so many years of use.

  It was like she was swimming in a sweatshirt of his, or wearing his reading glasses for a moment. It was delicious and disorienting.

  What she wanted to do was make a cup of coffee in his decades-old Coffee Mate she’d spotted on the counter. She wanted to bring that coffee and sit for a while in John’s bed. She wanted the sheets to pool around her hips. She wanted to pretend that John was just out grabbing some breakfast for them. That he’d be back in a matter of minutes. That he’d slide under the sheets with her and drink half her cup of coffee.

  And because she wanted to do those things, Mary got out of bed instead. She knew that daydreaming any longer was bound to be bad for her health and bad for her relationship with John. So, she roused herself, brewed some coffee and took another quick shower. She changed into the dress she’d brought, and by the time the coffee was ready, her hair was already wispily drying, that was how warm it was today.

  Mary sipped her coffee and picked up her towels from the bathroom sink. She wondered if he had a hamper or something she could put them in. Maybe some small part of her acknowledged that she wanted to snoop just a little bit, but most of her just wanted to not impose mess on her host’s hospitality. Mary swung open the one door that he hadn’t introduced her to, and sure enough, it was John’s closet.

  Her mouth fell flat open. She set her coffee down and pressed one palm to her racing heart. She didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her before. She didn’t know how she’d missed this detail, so glaringly obvious now that it stared her in the face.

  In John’s neat, organized closet hung three crisply white button-downs. There, on a hanger, was his single midnight blue tie. Folded up on a pants hanger hung two pairs of black slacks. To the right were three small shelves where perhaps ten T-shirts were neatly folded, along with two or three pairs of leisure or workout pants and two pairs of shorts. On the ground was one pair of nice leather sneakers, one pair of running shoes and one pair of sandals that she could not, for the life of her, picture him wearing.

  There were two more drawers where she imagined his underwear and socks to be, and she did not investigate to verify. She’d invaded his privacy enough. Mary stuffed her towels into the hamper and closed the door of his closet.

  It was so clear to her now. God, she felt so stupid. And she’d internally accused him a million times of being judgmental! John didn’t dress this way because he was elitist and boring. He didn’t wear the same pair of wingtips every day because he was clinging to the wingtip brotherhood that Mary had cruelly imagined him to be a part of. No. He dressed this way because he was a public defender and living in New York City on a public defender�
��s salary, and didn’t have money to burn on shoes and clothes and frivolity.

  Mary looked down at the colorfully printed Diane von Furstenberg dress that she wore. Swishy, loud, flowery print. She’d bought it one day on a whim, because she’d felt like shopping. And then she’d judged John because he wore black and white every day.

  Black and white never went out of style. They always made him look professional. He could wear it to work, on a date and, yes, even to a block party if he didn’t mind looking a little overdressed. He wasn’t boring. He was practical. And Mary wanted to kiss him for it.

  * * *

  JOHN KNOCKED ON his own door, still in his pajamas. He had his work shoes in one hand and yesterday’s work clothes folded under his arm. He didn’t particularly want Mary to see him in his faded blue pajama pants and undershirt, but he also hadn’t wanted to change back into yesterday’s clothes either. Maybe she’d be in her pajamas still and he wouldn’t have to feel so bad.

  Aaaaaaand, no such luck. Mary swung open the door—damn, she looked good in his apartment—looking freshly pressed and sparkly clean. She was all smiles and a hundred bright colors. John fought to not squint against the glare of her. The woman was freaking potent.

  And nervous? John cocked his head to one side, still standing in the hallway, as he watched Mary’s eyes track down his clothing, catch on his messy morning hair and skitter away.

  “Morning!” she said, just a bit too brightly, even for Mary.

  “Morning,” he said back, his morning voice even scratchier than usual. “Bless you for making coffee.”

  “You want me to pour you a cup?”

  Yeah, she was definitely nervous. She was standing in the middle of his living room holding one elbow and playing with the fabric of her dress with her free hand. Her eyes were on her pedicured toes.

  “Uh, I’m gonna shower and change first, and then I’ll grab some.”

  She nodded, turned on her heel and went to join Ruth on the love seat. John quickly showered and brushed his teeth. He was grateful he’d gotten a haircut this week because his hair parted perfectly and lay smooth. He quickly changed into his usual outfit, rolling his sleeves to his elbows and praying he wouldn’t sweat through the shirt by noon. On a normal Saturday, one where he was headed to Estrella’s house or getting work done at his kitchen table, he might have worn his old jeans and a T-shirt, but Mary looked like she was ready to strut down Fifth Avenue, and John didn’t think his ten-year-old jeans, white at the seams, would flourish by comparison.

  He left the steamy bathroom and crossed to the kitchen area, pouring himself some coffee and going to sit with Mary on the love seat. It was a little bit too tight of a fit for two people and Ruth. The cat yowled at him when he sat on her tail. Ruth batted at his sleeve and rolled to her back, rubbing her face vigorously against his knee.

  They both laughed, and John absently scratched at Ruth’s belly. He was very aware of the fact that both he and Mary were staring at Ruth, almost as if they couldn’t bear to look at one another. Why was this so intense? It felt like a morning after.

  If it was just a feelings hangover, he could understand, Mary had had a hell of a day yesterday, but he couldn’t help but feel like there was even more happening under the surface that he couldn’t quite pin down.

  He cleared his throat. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes,” she answered immediately, making him laugh.

  “All right, there’s a few breakfast places around here and—” he squinted at the clock over the oven “—if we go soon, we’ll probably beat the brunch rush. Oh, shit. Shitshitshitshitshit!” John stood up and strode across the room to the kitchen table, where he’d set his phone down when he came in.

  “What is it?” Mary asked.

  John groaned when he double-checked his calendar, even though he already knew what he’d find. “Shit. I’m so sorry, but I totally forgot to cancel on my dad. I had brunch plans with him. And now he’s definitely already on his way to the place. It’s too late to cancel.” He looked up at Mary miserably. All he wanted was to have a casual breakfast with her. To stuff her full of hash browns and eggs and orange juice. He wanted to fortify her against the world. He wanted to watch her sip coffee in that beautifully colorful dress of hers and know that she’d changed into that dress in his apartment that morning. Was that too much to ask of the universe? Apparently.

  Mary cocked her head to one side. “What’s the big deal? Do we not have time to get there or something?”

  John felt something lift off in his gut. We? “You...want to come along?”

  “Oh.” She instantly went bright red. “I didn’t mean to invite myself. I just thought—I’m hungry! I’m not thinking straight.”

  He chuckled at her flustered expression, her pink cheeks. “No, that’s okay. It just hadn’t occurred to me that you’d want to join us. But sure, yeah. It’s a good brunch spot in Brooklyn Heights, and then we can head over and get your door fixed after.”

  “If you’re sure I won’t be intruding?”

  John vehemently shook his head. If she was volunteering her company, he was accepting it. Time spent with his father wasn’t exactly the easiest, and John was extremely eager to see how having a Mary Trace buffer would affect the quality of it. Although...

  “I should probably warn you...” He cleared his throat. “I’ve never brought anyone to meet my father before, and he’ll probably think that we’re together. No matter what we say.”

  Mary traced a line of gray fur on Ruth’s chest, her eyes cast downward, her cheeks still pink. “I don’t mind that.”

  John’s mind instantly and ferociously examined that phrase, turning it over, catching every possible light against every possible surface. She didn’t mind someone thinking they were together? She didn’t mind his father being obtuse and stubborn?

  Or—God—she didn’t mind the idea of the two of them actually being together? John’s knees went jelly, and his fingers were cold in the pockets of his trousers. Was this an opening? His moment to tell her what he really wanted? What he’d tried to get himself to stop hoping for since the moment she’d walked out of that restaurant all those weeks ago?

  “I mean,” she continued with a shrug of one shoulder, “parents are going to believe whatever they want regardless of what you tell them. I’ve already told you how my parents are. Trust me, one suspicious father is nothing I can’t deal with for the length of a single brunch.”

  Oh. The thing in his stomach that had lifted off touched back down to earth. Right. She’d meant that she didn’t mind dealing with his dad. She wasn’t over there fantasizing about being with John. She wasn’t going to pretend, as John might have, that the two of them really were together, leaving his apartment on a hot July morning to do their due diligence with a monthly Saturday brunch with his father. She’d probably already forgotten the fact that she’d slept in his bed last night, or at least, she was glazing over it in her mind. She certainly wasn’t marveling over the stunning newness of it, turning over last night in her heart like a stone, trying to figure out if it should be polished to a high shine or tossed back into the river.

  He cleared his throat. “If you’re sure, then we should get going.”

  “All right!” she said brightly, popping up and striding over to her bag. Her overnight bag. John nearly groaned aloud when he watched her pack her things up. His father was never going to believe they were just friends, not when she showed up on a Saturday morning at his side, an overnight bag on her hip. He was going to be denying Mary’s place in his life for months with his father.

  They walked to the train, and John waved through the window at his barber as they walked past.

  “Is that where you get your hair cut?” Mary asked, stopping to look in the window.

  “Uh-huh.”

  She studied the faded photos of which haircuts they offered up in the window. She
pointed to one of the photos. “Is that the one you get?”

  He laughed. “I don’t actually choose from these photos. I just sit my ass down, pay the man fifteen bucks and leave when he’s done.”

  She turned and studied his hair. John did everything he could not to shift on his feet, not to mess around with his hair. “It’s a nice cut,” she finally decided.

  “Probably not the most fashionable way to wear my hair,” he said, although he wasn’t sure why he did.

  She gave him a funny look, kind of like the one she’d given him when he’d first seen her that morning. Nervous, a little confused. “You don’t care about that, do you, John?”

  “No,” he answered honestly. “It’s important to me that I look presentable. But no, I’m not reading Men’s Vogue in my spare time.”

  She laughed. “Men’s Vogue is not a thing. And you always look very nice. Presentable. Your haircut isn’t trendy, but it’s classic. Never goes out of style.”

  He cut a look at her colorful dress, looking like it was just seconds from having been unwrapped from a department store bag. “You’d tell me if I start to look out of style or out of date?”

  She cut a look back at him. “If you want me to.”

  “I want you to. How I look is important in that it’s one of the main things that a jury assesses about me. At least at first. I have to strike a balance.”

  “You want to look like you take the whole thing seriously, but you also want to look like you’re on their level. Not above anyone.”

  “Exactly.”

  They jogged down to the train and rode in companionable quiet. When she started fiddling with the zipper of her overnight bag, John had to fight the urge to take her hand in his. “You all right?”