Full Package

I slide my hand across the table and rest it on top of hers. “It’s not stupid.”


She shakes her head. “It’s just . . . you put yourself out there, and someone isn’t who he seems. Do you know what I mean?”

Do I ever.

“Yes.”

“And this guy, Damien, was like that. I met him on an online site, and we just really hit it off. We connected on everything. Same sense of humor, same love of books. He even liked Scrabble.”

A rocket-fueled blast of jealousy rolls through me. That’s our thing. I grit my teeth as she talks.

“We had the best time chatting online. We’d chat until the wee hours of the morning about anything and everything. He changed his status to exploring a new relationship. And we went out a couple of times. They were all these seemingly perfect, idyllic dates,” she says, and I hate Damien already with a bone-deep loathing. “We went to a piano bar, and even when he heard me sing under my breath, he didn’t make fun of me.” She flashes a weary smile. “And you know what an awful singer I am.”

“Just mouth the words,” I whisper.

Her smile grows bigger. “He doesn’t know about that. You’re the only one privy to that horror story.”

During one of our college breaks at her house, while the two of us were hanging out in the living room, stretched out on her parents’ couch, her feet slung over my thighs, I’d asked her for her most embarrassing moment.

“Hands down. Second grade. Music class.”

My ears perked. “Tell me.”

“Each student had to sing ‘Scotland’s Burning’ in front of the group, and when it was my turn, I walked into the middle of the circle, opened my mouth and sang, ‘Scotland’s burning, Scotland’s burning, look out, look out.’ And I was sure I sounded fine. Until the teacher covered her ears.”

“Ouch.”

“The real ouch was when the music teacher said, ’Just mouth the words, child. Just mouth the words.’”

“And that was the end of your Broadway dreams.”

She imitated squashing a bug with her hand, and then she sang a line from the song. She was woefully off-key, and I joined in, committing equal musical crimes with my terrible voice.

“Don’t tell my brothers.”

“It’s our secret,” I’d said.

And it has been. Ever since.

“Anyway,” she says, returning to the story of Damien. “The next time, he took me to a book signing. JoJo Moyes was in town, and he knew I loved her work so we went to An Open Book, where I met her and had her sign Me Before You.”

My hatred for him intensifies. Josie loves that book. And I just know that somehow this douche nozzle used that information to take advantage of her. “You told me all about it last year. How torn up you were over the ending. How it made you think about so many things.”

She nods, a small smile playing on her lips. “It did. I’m not saying I agree with the choices made, but that book just touched me,” she says, patting her heart. Then she moves her hand to her head, tapping her temple. “And it made me think.”

“I liked hearing your reaction when you wrote to me about it.”

“And I liked sharing that with you,” she says, then takes a beat. “And I told him, too. How it made me think. How it made me feel.” She heaves a sigh. “So he took me to the signing. He was trying to be everything he thought I wanted, so he could get what he wanted.”

She swallows, and yup, I know where this story is going. And it’s not because Wyatt gave me the spoiler. It’s etched in her eyes and colors her voice, and I wish I could erase any hurt she’s ever been through. “A few more dates, a few more kisses, a few more times rolling out the Josie Hammer red carpet.” She glances away momentarily, then she shakes her head and looks at me. “Then we slept together.”

And even though I knew that was coming, I can’t control the green-eyed monster that thrashes in my belly, fighting to break free.

I can, however, control what I do about it.

“And?” I ask, keeping my tone even.

“It was good,” she says, matter-of-factly, and the creature rattles the bars, kicking and screaming. But I don’t give in.

“And he didn’t call the next day?”

A deep breath. A sheen over her eyes. “I waited. Stupidly.” Her voice is feather-thin. “Like my phone was an extension of my hand. I even texted him the next evening. Like a foolish girl. ‘Hey,’” she says, adopting a too-cheery tone. “‘Hope you had a great day. I know I did. Thinking of you.’”

My stomach churns with anger. With righteous rage. “Did he ever write back?”

She nods. “Once. That night. He said, ‘Day was great.’”

The dude couldn’t even say my day was great.

“And is that all you ever heard from him?”