by Sara Ney
18
Phillip
“I hate you both.”
Pretty sure I’m slurring my words, but they’re still making sense, so I hardly care. We’re at The Basement after I called an emergency meeting, sans velvet smoking jackets.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
“You’ve told us that thirteen times already,” Blaine says. “I’m keeping track.”
“Wow. Could you be any more unsupportive?”
My friends glance at each other.
“I saw that.” Fuckers.
“You still haven’t told us what this is about, but I’m willing to bet it has something to do with that girl.” Brooks glances toward Blaine, neither of them sober themselves. “Wush her name? Spender?”
“Spencer,” I correct him.
“That’s a guy’s name,” Brooks argues.
“It’s a girl’s name. How about you shut up, your girlfriend has a last name for a first name.”
Their eyes get wide; of the three of us, I’m the least confrontational. Always the least likely to tell anyone how I feel. This outburst gives them pause, drunk as we are.
“Did you dump her?” Blaine is finally eating some food, the appetizers we ordered when we sat down.
“We weren’t together.”
“Do you wanna be together?” Blaine holds his fingers into the A-OK gesture and uses the index finger of his other hand to poke through the hole he’s making.
Idiot.
“Yes.” I hesitate, unable to prevent the truth from flowing out of my mouth. “I like her.”
“Enough to forfeit?”
Maybe.
No.
“Maybe?” My elbows rest on my knees and I lean forward, burying my face in my hands. “Ugh, I feel sick.”
“If you’re going to spew, do it in the bathroom, dude,” Brooks offers unhelpfully.
I glance over at him. “I’m not going to puke, I just feel sick.”
Why is this room so fucking loud? I can’t hear myself think.
“What am I going to do?” I groan.
“I don’t know, bro—what do you want to do?” Blaine asks, and the weight of a hand is on my back, pressing down to comfort me. “Just tell us what you need.”
Oh, now he’s being sensitive? Where was this caring, helpful fuck a half-hour ago when I started downing shots?
“Right this second, I give zero shits about the bet, or the season tickets or the anything.” My head starts to pound, so I raise it. “I fucked up.”
They patiently wait for the floodgate to open.
Sighing, I take the glass of water that’s magically appeared out of nowhere and chug down a healthy swallow. It’s cold and refreshing and just what I needed.
“The truth is, I don’t know what I want.”
The gravity of my statement hangs above us.
Again, they wait.
“I…think if I don’t fix this thing with Spencer, it’ll be too late, and I…worry that…”
What do I worry, what do I worry?
Focus, Phillip. Focus.
Two fingers press into my temples as I search for the right words. “I worry that…she thinks she’s the butt of some joke. No, that’s not it.” Inhale. Exhale. “I worry if I don’t choose her, I’m going to regret it.”
“How long have you known her?” Brooks asks. “Four days? You’re going to blow a bet for someone you’ve known four days? You cannot be that stupid.”
Blaine smacks him in the arm. “Dude, I’m not just saying this because I’m drunk—I’m saying it because I love you.” His hand moves to rest on my arm. “And I’m not saying it because I want to win the bet, which I do.”
“Would you get to the point?” Brooks grumbles, annoyed.
“That’s all I had to say.”
I look at Brooks. “I don’t think whether I’ve known her four days or four weeks or four months matters. I just have this feeling about her—you know?”
Brooks sighs. “Yeah. Unfortunately, I do know.”
“She’s a good person, I know it.”
“Do you? Know it? Do you know and he knows and everyone knows?” Blaine cackles. “Oh my God, you two are so toasted.”
“God you’re a pain in the ass.”
I have no idea what I’m trying to say. My friends aren’t wrong; I did just meet Spencer. I just…
From the second that first crumb fell from her mouth to her sweater, I knew.
I mean—I wanted to put a muzzle on her, and she drove me nuts, and was hella distracting, and come to think of it, what did I actually get done this week? Nothing. Nothing got submitted or reported and I visited exactly zero job sites. Visited zero subcontractor showrooms, looked at zero materials.
I groan.
She’s already making me weak; the only thing I’ve had any desire to do this week is spend time with her. The fact that I was jammed into her cramped space? That made it effortless.
I miss her.
I hate knowing I hurt her. I hate knowing she thinks I’m a flaming bag of dog shit.
“What should I do?” ’Cause right now I want to shrivel up and die. “Forfeit?”
The more thought I give that idea, the more it appeals to me. Being a member of this club hasn’t benefitted me once; it’s done nothing but make me miserable.
I can liberate myself. Instead, I’m full of libations.
Ugh.
“You’re not forfeiting,” Brooks tells me authoritatively.
“But it worked for you.”
“Yeah, but I was in love. You’re in like—it’s too soon.”
Is it though? “I need to talk to her about this.”
“Definitely drunk-text her,” Blaine suggests vehemently, biting into a mozzarella stick. “That always gets the conversation rolling in the right direction.”
“Do not listen to him,” Brooks counters. “Do not.”
“I haven’t drunk-texted anyone since I had a flip phone,” I inform them, staring down at the phone number I got from the company directory. “Plus, it’s not my style.”
“What is your style?” they both want to know.
“I don’t know.”
But I’m going to figure it out.
19
Spencer
The kitchen sparkles and shines.
The bathroom? Twinkles.
I can now see my reflection in every surface of my apartment, including the fabric ones. I’ve scrubbed every nook and cranny from top to bottom.
Twice.
I don’t throw pity parties. I don’t wallow. And I don’t whine. So what do I do when I’m angry and upset?
Clean.
Quick, someone check my temperature—I’m coming down with something!
I rest my hip on the corner of the couch and let out a sigh, the first deep breath I’ve taken since yesterday at the office. It seems as if I’ve been holding it since the moment Phillip walked out without looking back.
Jerk.
You’re the fool…
I knew it was a huge mistake to entertain the idea of a work romance, and my gut was correct. Did I listen? No. Thank goodness it was only the span of a week, and not weeks or months. I can’t imagine how much harm that would have done.
There’s a rag in my hand and sweat on my brow. I blow the stray strands of hair out of my face and glance around the living room. It’s never been neater. Totally decluttered. A pile of crap I no longer want or need sits by the front door, waiting to be placed in totes—which I’ll have to run out and get this weekend.
The donation center will be happy to see me; the taxi cab driver who has to haul all this shit there with me? Not so much.
Tearing through my apartment should have felt cathartic, and it did, for an entire three hours. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, though, all I’m left with are my thoughts.
Overthink it, overthink it, my brain screams.
No worries! Got that part covered…
Ruefully, I smile. Heav
ily, I sigh again, unsure about what to do next. Pack everything into plastic bags until I can run to the store for totes? Leave the piles where they are? Start rearranging the bookshelves in my tiny home office?
Maybe I should arrange my books by color rather than author and series. Would that just frustrate me if I have to search for a specific title? Book nerd problems.
I move from my perch in the living room, into the kitchen, and scowl at the pigeons shitting on my windowsill. Are they pretty birds? Absolutely. Are they ruining the aesthetic of my view? Also yes.
“Shoo!” I instruct the little family of gray poultry.
They ignore me.
“I said git!”
Why do I care? They’re here every damn day, pooping on the wooden ledge, messing it up with twigs and grass and poo.
My shoulders sag, defeated, and a sniffle escapes my throat. First one tear, then another, until I’m searching for a tissue to wipe my nose with.
“Ugh, what is wrong with you?!” My question is to absolutely no one. “I’m going to be alone forever!” Dramatically, I plop down into a chair at my little round table. I normally love my cute apartment, but today? I feel alone and isolated.
Unloved.
Even Miranda couldn’t cheer me up with a midmorning invitation for breakfast.
Not today, I told her.
Miranda: How about a movie later?
Me: I don’t know—I’ll think about it.
Me: Why am I acting like this? Like it’s the end of the world? Why does my stomach hurt and my heart ache?
Miranda: Because…maybe Phillip is your soul mate. Have you thought of that?
That.
That gave me pause.
What if Miranda is right? Is that why I’ve been on a roller coaster of emotion since the moment Phillip and I bumped into each other Monday morning, since I watched as he puked in the trash? I remember feeling bad for him—wanting to comfort him even though I knew he’d be too embarrassed to accept the help.
I tap on my phone and scroll for the music app. Swipe and click, pairing the device to my wireless speaker and searching for an upbeat ditty. What I need is a song to lift my spirits.
A ballad will make me cry.
So will country.
This one about a slow dance in a parking lot? Cue the tears!
This one? Too romantic.
This one? Depressing.
I wind up listening to a podcast, Love & Sex with Doctor Stacy, but who am I trying to kid? I’m neither having sex nor am I in love.
“Communication, from the beginning of a relationship, is key. With it, you’re setting yourself and your relationship up for success—successful communication,” the host of the podcast drones on. “Leads to a healthy sex life if you can tell your partner what you desire and need.”
Well. Big fail on the open and honest part.
“Let’s open up the phone lines for a few callers.”
I listen for the next hour while I remove all the books from the white bookcase, piling myriads of paperbacks on the floor around the room in neat stacks, dusting the shelves.
Finally content, I hum.
Further along, I turn off the podcast and switch to music.
I’m in a zone, an organizing fool, when the door buzzer sounds from below. Three levels down, someone is pushing on the monitor.
Bzz.
Bzz, bzz.
“Who on earth?” I set down the stack of paperbacks cradled in my arms and rise, wiping my hands off on the thighs of my jeans.
I’m not expecting anyone, and my intercom almost never buzzes—mainly because the only one who comes over is Miranda, and she has the door code.
Bzz.
“Alright, alright, I’m coming!”
This better be good—or the wrong address. Perhaps a package I forgot I ordered? Nah, the mail guy usually leaves those on the first floor.
My pink nail hits the gray button located next to my front door.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” says a deep, male voice.
“Uh.” I don’t recognize it. “Who is this?”
The intercom static crackles. “Phillip.”
“Oh.”
It’s Phillip.
“What do you want?”
“I have… I want…”
I listen to stagnant air as he pauses awkwardly.
“I have a peace offering. I was hoping…” He pauses again. “I was hoping you didn’t hate me enough to not let me come up.”
My ears perk up. Optimism fills my chest. “A peace offering, you say?”
“Yes, and it’s getting heavy.”
Heavy? What the hell could it be?
I press the button again. “Is Humphrey with you?”
He laughs through the speaker. “God no. He’s a mood-killer.”
That he is. But he’s also adorable and silly. “What peace offering?”
“You have to let me up to find out.”
Hmm. “That sounds like blackmail.”
“No, it’s bribery.”
“You and your bribes—ugh, I can’t.”
“So…will you buzz me in?”
I bite my bottom lip indecisively. “I guess I can let you up. No funny business.”
I press the door release, granting him entry, heart palpitating. Oh my God, what in the world is he doing here? What does he want? What does my hair look like and why the hell didn’t I put on makeup this morning?!
Rushing to the bathroom mirror, I fluff my mop of a hairdo then fumble for a hair tie. Pull it back and hate the way it looks. Let it loose and finger-comb it.
“Ugh!” Dammit!
No makeup. Sweat. I dash to the bathroom and fumble for a wash rag, wet it, and stick it under my T-shirt, washing my pits. Give myself a good douse of body spray, certain it now reeks to floral heaven in my apartment.
Why am I like this?!
No time to answer the question as I have to answer the soft knocking at my front door. Giving myself one more look in the mirror, I give up entirely. Rosy cheeks will have to do.
I count to three before pulling the handle. Paste on a neutral expression—it’s never a good idea to appear too eager.
But then…I smile, because: Phillip.
“Hey.” His own smile is sheepish and shy.
He’s carrying a small bakery box. Pink. Mysterious, as there is no clear viewing window in the top.
“Hi.” I rest my hip on the doorjamb. “Whatcha got there?”
I don’t mince words; I’m curious—about why he’s here and what’s in the box.
I love pink. I hope it’s cupcakes.
If that’s the case, all will be forgiven. I’m cheap and easy and have no shame in my game. I’ll admit it: will break for cake.
“Can I come in?”
I move aside. “You’re not content standing on my stoop?”
Seeing him in my kitchen is surreal; I haven’t had a man inside my apartment in months, possibly a year, and the sight of it is strange—especially since we only just met. We only just kissed.
We fought at work yesterday.
I was glad to be gone at the end of the day, knowing when I return on Monday, his things will be gone, but then again—so will mine. I have no clue whose space I will be sharing, or if I’ll elect to work from home.
My boss gave us the choice.
Phillip isn’t the biggest dude I’ve ever seen, but his presence fills my room all the same. Broad shoulders and the perfect amount of bulk, he’s dressed casually in jeans, a T-shirt, and a navy fleece jacket.
He sets the pink box on my table and shrugs off his jacket.
Dang—he must intend to stay a while.
Nosey, I give that box the stare-down.
Briefly, he rubs his hands together, nervous. “First, I want to start by saying I’m sorry.”
“For?”
His lips quirk. “A lot of things. I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching in the past twenty-four hours, self-reflecting.”
He continues standing. “The whole thing with my friends started as a joke. Kind of. Brooks was upset about a breakup, was angry and hurt and needed an outlet for his frustration.”
“He couldn’t have joined a basketball league?” I quip, to Phillip’s ire.
He ignores me. “One night we were all at The Basement getting drunk, and we were on a roll. The whole club thing came up, and we started spouting off rules. Then someone—I can’t remember who—decided we should have stakes, so the three of us had to pony up a possession. Mine is an all-terrain vehicle. If I lose the bet, I lose the four-wheeler.”
He clears his throat to continue as I listen.
“Blaine broke up with his girlfriend, my sister ordered us those matching smoking jackets—we were all in.”
“Blaine broke up with his girlfriend?” My eyes are out of their sockets I’m gaping so hard. “That’s horrible.”
“She was horrible, but that’s a story for another day.”
“But who does that?”
“Guys. Immature ones.”
“Are you admitting you’re immature?”
He nods. “One hundred percent.”
“At least we agree.”
“Can I finish apologizing?”
I give him a head bob worthy of the Queen of England. “Go on.”
Phillip rolls his eyes but smiles. “Our club—which I’m not supposed to be telling you about—was fine at first. We’d meet, shoot the shit, have drinks. At first it didn’t seem like anyone was going to lose, because none of us were dating. Blaine didn’t even seem interested in reconciling with Bambi.”
“Hold up—her name was Bambi?” Shit, he should have known that wasn’t going to last.
“Then one night, Brooks cracks. He’d met someone, his neighbor, Abbott. She blew him off a few times and—”
“Blew him off! Did he know her?”
He stares blankly. “Not blow jobs—she gave him the cold shoulder.”
“Oh.” Oops. “That does seem more plausible in this scenario.”
“Ya think? So we’re at The Basement and he’s distraught—like I was last night…”
My brows go up, interested. What’s this now, he was distraught? About what?