Full Package

Toss some oil and vinegar in it. Or don’t. Whatever.

Eat it, especially since you need to punish yourself more. You totally effed up. You know you did. Where do we even start? Everywhere. From the beginning right on through to the other day when you watched him walk out the door. Idiot. You don’t deserve sweets.





33





I’d like to say I bury myself in work that next week, but that would do a disservice to every other day I’ve tended to a wound, or stitched up a knee, or removed a mustard jar from a butt.

Hey, it’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.

Anyway, work saves me.

I’ve always buried myself in it, but I like to think that’s the only way to do the job. To give all of myself to it. I’m glad I have a job that demands everything of me. Mercy gets not only one hundred percent of my focus, but one hundred and ten percent. Maybe this is the real lucky-bastard life—to have a job I love so much that I don’t even have time to think about the girl I miss. At the end of each work day, I’m relieved I’ve logged ten or twelve hours without thinking about her.

The trouble is my shift ends every evening.

That’s when the missing begins in earnest, pain like a phantom limb, a persistent reminder of what I don’t have anymore.

One night after work, Wyatt texts me to meet up with him and Nick, telling me it’s softball season and I need to get my ass to Central Park.

I go, and I’m both grateful and really fucking depressed that Josie’s not playing this year. Nick hits a home run; that’s par for the course for him. I manage a small degree of satisfaction when I knock in two runners during my turn at bat.

That feeling fades, though, when I leave, head downtown, and check my phone. There’s no note from Josie. I sigh heavily as I flop down on the couch at Max’s home, absently fiddling with the screen. I could write to her. I could text her. I should.

But it’s too fucking hard. I didn’t even see her when I stopped by the apartment a few days ago to grab the rest of my things. I made sure to go when I knew she’d be at work.

When Max comes home with Chinese takeout and beer, I switch off the Josie portion of my brain and turn on the hunger lobe. That does the trick, and I do find a small degree of pleasure in knowing I’m returning to old habits. I haven’t completely lost my dependable talent for compartmentalization. It’s like a renaissance of sorts, as I’m remade back into the guy who isn’t head over heels for a girl.

Yup. I know this dude. I can be this dude. As I put my feet on Max’s coffee table, I stretch my arms, my old self coming back.

He kicks off my foot. “Dude, this isn’t a frat house.”

“Josie let me do it,” I grumble.

He arches an eyebrow. “Josie doesn’t make the rules here.” He grabs the clicker and flicks on the TV, scrolling to HBO. “You seen the newest Ballers episode? This show kills it.”

I groan and slide my hand over my face.

“What? You don’t like the Rock?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Don’t tell me it reminds you of Josie.”

Busted.

“Maybe,” I mutter.

“You should text her. See her. You’re supposed to be friends with her. Be fucking friends with her.”

“She hasn’t texted me, though, except about keys and the apartment.”

He smacks the back of my head. “What are you? Twelve?” He grabs my phone from the table and shoves it at me. “Call her. Have a coffee or whatever you do with her that doesn’t involve keys or the apartment or household shit.” He sets his laser-beam eyes to high. “Or I’ll do it for you.”

That does the trick. I send her a note, asking her if she wants to have breakfast tomorrow. She says she’ll be leaving early for work, but suggests dinner or drinks in the evening.

We settle on drinks. And it’s weird—Josie and I were never the friends who went out to get drinks. We sampled food. We saw movies. We wandered in and out of bookstores. We walked and talked and tried her bakery goods.

I don’t want to get a brew with her.

But I do it anyway, meeting her the next day at Speakeasy in Midtown. She’s already at the bar when I walk in. Perched on a stool, her legs are crossed, and she wears pink sandals, a purple skirt with a candy pattern on it, and a white tank top.

My skin heats up, and I have to reel in all my dirty thoughts. Mainly the ones that remind me exactly what she looks like underneath those clothes. How she feels. How she tastes. How she moves, and moans, and groans, and for fuck’s sake, brain, have a little mercy on a man. Some things are not fair, like planting those alluring images in my head right now.

I walk over to her, and it’s awkward for a moment. Then she hops off the stool and throws her arms around me. “Hey you.”

“Hey you,” I echo and pump a virtual fist. We can do this.

She holds up a hand like a stop sign. “Before we order, I have this for you.” She reaches into her bag and grabs a treat.