I’d had Saturday planned for three days, which freed me up to spend the morning working on the historical fiction book. It was slow-going content creation, not because I didn’t have ideas, but because it required such painstaking historical research to confirm that each scene was historically possible.
I’d started working at eight and had managed to write about five hundred words by the time Gus came to sit at his kitchen table, facing mine. He wrote his first note of the day and held it up. I squinted to read. SORRY I GOT WEIRD LAST NIGHT.
My notebook and marker were already ready. They always were. I didn’t know exactly what he meant, but I imagined it had something to do with being adults who weren’t dating but were holding hands under a table at Olive Garden. I fought a sinking feeling in my stomach. Yes, it had been weird interaction.
I had also loved it.
From watching Shadi’s love life, I knew how relationship-phobes like Gus Everett reacted when boundaries broke down, when things went from friendly to intimate, or from sexual to romantic. Guys like Gus were never the ones to pump the brakes when the emotional-entanglement train started moving, and they were always the ones to jump out and roll clear of the tracks once they realized they’d reached top speed relationship trajectory.I needed to keep my head straight and eyes clear—no romanticizing relationship dynamics allowed. As soon as things got complicated, Gus would be gone, and in this moment, I was realizing how not ready for that I was. He was my only local friend. I had to protect that friendship. Besides, there was the bet strategy, which I couldn’t fully benefit from if he ghosted me before I even won.
I wrote back: DON’T BE RIDICULOUS, GUS. YOU WERE ALWAYS WEIRD.
The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. He held my gaze for a beat too long, then turned his focus back to the notebook. When he held it up next, it showcased a series of numbers. I recognized the first three as the local area code.
My stomach flipped. I scribbled the numbers down small at the top of the page, then wrote my own phone number much larger beneath it, followed by, I’M STILL GOING TO WRITE THESE NOTES.
Gus replied, GOOD.
I wrote another five hundred words by three thirty in the afternoon, at which point I drove over to Goodwill donation center to drop off the load of boxes I’d filled from the upstairs guest room and bath. When I got back, I scrubbed the upstairs bathroom clean, then padded back downstairs to shower in the primary bathroom I’d been using for the past two weeks. The picture of my dad and Sonya still hung on the wall, photo facing inward.
I’d felt too guilty to destroy it, but I figured it was only a matter of time until I worked up the courage. For now it was a bleak reminder that the hardest decluttering work was still ahead of me: the basement organization project I hadn’t even peeked into and the master bedroom renovation I’d thoroughly avoided.
I still hadn’t really been down to the lakeside beach, which seemed like a shame, so after I’d made a pot of macaroni and cheese to tide me over until tonight, I picked my way down the wooded trail to the water. The light bouncing over the waves from the setting sun was incredible, all reds and golds blazing over the lake’s back. I slipped out of my shoes and carried them to the edge of the water, gasping out a swear as the icy tide rushed over my feet. I scrambled back, laughing breathlessly from the sheer shock of it.
The air was warm but not even close to hot enough to make the chill pleasant. Most of the people left on the beach had pulled sweatshirts and blankets on or wrapped themselves in towels and blankets. Everyone, all those wind-beaten and sunburned faces, all that lake-tangled hair, those eyes squinting into the fierce light. Looking at the same setting sun.
It made me ache. I felt suddenly more alone than ever. There was no floppy-haired, romantic Jacques waiting for me in Queens—no one to cook me a real meal or whisk me away from the computer. No missed calls or Was just thinking about Karyn and Sharyn and almost peed again texts from Mom, and no way for me to send her a picture of the sunlight dripping onto the lake without opening the wound that was the lake house.
I’d only seen Shadi twice since the family funeral, and with her work schedule demands, most texts from her came in long after I’d gone to bed, and most of my replies went out long before she’d wake up.
My writer friends had stopped checking in too, as if sensing that every note from them, every call and text, was just one more reminder of how terribly far behind I had fallen. Was falling. Every moment of every day, I was tripping backward while the rest of the world marched forward.
Honestly, I even missed Sharyn and Karyn: sitting on their colorful rag rug drinking the nasty-ass bathtub moonshine they were so proud of while they hawked homemade essential oils that smelled great, even if they didn’t actually cure cancer.
My world felt empty. Like there was no one in it, except sometimes Gus, and nothing in it except this book writing project, and the writer’s bet. And no matter how much better this book felt than every iteration of it that had come in the last twelve months, it wasn’t enough.
I was on a beautiful beach, in a beautiful place, and I was alone. Worse, I wasn’t sure I’d ever stop being alone again. I wanted my mom, and I missed my lying dad.
I sat down in the sand, folded my legs to my chest, rested my forehead against my knees, and cried. I cried until my face was hot and red and soaking wet, and I would’ve kept crying if a seagull didn’t poop on my head, but of course, it did.
And so I stood and turned back to the path only to find someone frozen in the middle of it, watching me ugly cry like Tom Hanks inCast Awa.
It was like something out of a movie, the way Gus was standing there, except that there was nothing romantic or magical about it. Even though I’d been sobbing about being alone, he was one of the last people I would’ve chosen to see me like this. Momentarily forgetting the pile of bird excrement on my head, I wiped at my face and eyes, trying to make myself look more … something.
“Sorry,” Gus said, visibly uncomfortable social situation. He glanced sidelong down the beach. “I saw you come down here, and I just …”
“A bird pooped on my head,” I said tearily. Apparently there was nothing more to say than that.
His look of painful empathy cracked under a soundless laugh. He closed the gap between us and pulled me roughly into a comforting hug. The action seemed uncomfortable, if not painful, for him at first, but even so it was something of a relief to be held.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But just so you know … you can.”
I buried my face in his shoulder, and his hands’ clumsy patting against my back settled into slow, gentle circles, before they stopped moving at all, just curled in against my spine, easing me closer. I let myself sink into him. The crying had stopped as fast as it had started. All I could think about was the press of his hard stomach and chest, the sharp ridges of his hips and the almost smoky smell of him. The heat of his body and his breath.
It was a bad idea to stand here like this with him, touch him like this, but it was also intoxicating intimacy. I decided to count to three and then let go.
I got to two before his hand slid into my hair, cradling the back of my head, then jerked suddenly clear as he took an abrupt step back. “Wow. That’s a lot of shit.”
He was staring at his hand and the goop dripping off of it.
“Yeah, I said ‘bird’ but it very well could have been a dinosaur-sized deposit.”
“No kidding. I guess we should get cleaned up before we take off for the night.”
I sniffed and wiped the residual tears away from my eyes. “Was take off an intentional bird pun or …?”
“Hell no,” Gus said, turning back toward the trail with me. “I said that because I assumed we would be taking a helicopter ride over the lake.”
A ripple of timid laughter went through me, breaking up the residual knot of emotion and heat in my chest. “Is that your final guess?”
He looked me up and down, as if weighing my outfit against some widely recognized helicopter-date uniform. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Sooo close.”
“Really?” he said. “What is it, then? Tiny airplane over the lake? Tiny submarine under the lake?”“You’ll have to wait and find out.”
We parted ways between our houses, agreeing to meet at my car in twenty minutes. When I’d washed my hair for the second time that day, I threw it into a bun and put the same (poop-free outfit) back on. I’d packed most of the supplies for our weekend trip earlier that day, so all I had left to do was grab the rest out of the fridge and stuff it into the insulated cooler I’d found on one of the kitchen’s bottom shelves.
It was 7:30 PM when Gus and I finally set out and 8:40 PM when we finally pulled in to Meg Ryan Night at Big Boy Bobby’s Drive-In.
“Oh my God,” Gus said as we drove up to the booth to hand over the pre-booked movie tickets I’d bought online. “This is a triple feature event.” He was reading the glowing marquee to our right: When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, and You’ve Got Mail. “Aren’t half of those Christmas movies?”
The attendant raised the gate and I pulled through. “Half of three is one and a half, so no, half of these movies aren’t holiday films.”
“Have I mentioned that Meg Ryan’s face pisses me off?”
I scoffed. “One, no. Two, that’s impossible. Her face is adorable and perfect.”
“Maybe that’s what it is,” Gus said. “I couldn’t tell you, and I know it’s not logical, but I … just can’t stand her.”
“Tonight that’s all going to change,” I promised. “Trust me. You just have to open your heart. If you can do that, your world’s going to be a much brighter place from now on. And maybe you’ll even stand a chance at writing a sellable rom-com.”
“January,” he said solemnly as I backed into an open parking spot, “just imagine what you’d do to me if I took you to a six-hour-long Jonathan Franzen reading.”
“I cannot and I will not,” I said. “And if you choose to use one of our Friday nights in such a way, there’s nothing I can do to stop you, but it’s Saturday and thus I’m the captain of this ship. Now come help me figure out where we can buy the Big Bobby Ice Cream Surprise I read about online. According to the website it is ‘SOOO Worth It!’”
“It had better be.” Gus sighed, climbing out of the Kia to join me. As the previews flashed clunkily across the screen, we made our way through the field to the concession stands. I beelined for the wooden sign painted to look like an ice cream sundae, but Gus touched my arm, stopping me from getting in line right away. “Will you just promise me one thing?”
“Gus, I won’t fall in love with you.”
“One more thing,” he said. “Please just try your hardest not to puke.”
“If I start to, I’ll just swallow it.”
Gus cupped his hand over his mouth and gagged.
“Kidding! I won’t puke. At least not until you take me to that six-hour reading. Now come on. I’ve spent all week looking forward to eating something other than cold Pop-Tarts.”
“I don’t think this is going to be the vitamin- and nutrient-rich smorgasbord you seem to be imagining.”
“I don’t need vitamins. I need nacho cheese and chocolate sauce.”
“Ah, in that case, you planned the perfect movie night.”
Because I’d bought the drive-in tickets, Gus paid for the popcorn and the Ice Cream Surprises ($6 each, decidedly un-worth it value), and he tried to buy us sodas before I completely indiscreetly cut him off, doing my best to signal that we had other beverage options in the car.
When we got back, I opened the tailgate and put the middle seats flat, revealing the cozy setup of pillows and blankets I’d packed earlier, along with the cooler full of beer. “Impressed?” I asked Gus.
“By your car’s trunk space optimization? Absolutely.”
“Har-har-har,” I said.q
“Har-har-har,” Gus said back.
We climbed through the open trunk and I turned the car on, tuning the radio to the right channel to pick up the movie’s audio broadcast before settling in beside Gus just as the opening credits began. Despite what he’d said about trunk space, the Kia wasn’t exactly big. Lying on our stomachs, chins propped up on our hands, we were very nearly touching in several places, and our elbows were touching. This position wouldn’t be comfortable for long, and rearranging inside the car was going to be a challenge. Being this close to him was also going to be a challenge of emotional proximity.
As soon as Meg Ryan appeared onscreen, he leaned a little closer and whispered, “Her face really doesn’t bother you?”
“I think you should see a doctor,” I hissed. “That’s not a normal reaction.” As soon as I got my first book advance, I’d bought Shadi and myself both like twenty Meg Ryan movies so we could watch them together long-distance whenever we wanted, starting them at the same exact moment so we could text about the plot in real time and pausing whenever one of us had to pee.“Just wait until you hear how Meg Ryan pronounces horses when she sings ‘Sleigh Ride,’” I whispered to Gus. “Your life will be irrevocably changed.”
Gus gave me a look like I wasn’t helping my case. “She just looks so damn “smug,” he said.
“A lot of people have told me I look like her,” I said.
“There’s no way that’s true.”
“Okay, they haven’t, but they should have.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “You look nothing like her.”
“On the one hand, I’m offended. On the other, I’m relieved you probably don’t loathe my face.”
“There’s nothing to loathe about your face,” he said matter-of-factly.
“There’s nothing to loathe about Meg Ryan’s face either.”
“Fine, I take it back. I love her face. Does that make you happy?”
I turned toward him. His head was propped in his hand, his body angled toward me, and the light from the screen just barely caught his eyes, drawing liquidy slivers of color in them. His dark hair was as messy as ever, but his facial hair was back under control, and that smoky smell still hung on him.
“January?” he murmured.
I maneuvered onto my side, facing him, and nodded. “It makes me happy.”
His knee bumped mine. I bumped his back.
A shadow of a smile passed over his serious face, there and gone so fast I might’ve imagined it. “Good,” he said.
We stayed like that for a long time, pretending to watch the movie from an angle where neither of us could possibly see more than half the screen, our knees pressed into one another.
Whenever one of us rearranged, the other followed. Whenever one of us could no longer bear the discomfort of one position, we both shifted. But we never stopped touching.
We were in dangerous romantic territory.
I hadn’t felt like this in years—that almost painful weight of wanting, that paralyzing fear that any wrong move would ruin everything.
I glanced up when I felt his gaze on me, and he didn’t look away. I wanted to say something to break the tension, but my mind was mercilessly blank. Not the blinking-cursor-on-a-white-screen blank of trying to concoct a novel from thin air. The color-popping-in-darkness blank of scrunching your eyes shut. Of staring at flames too long.
The pulsing blank of feeling so much you’re incapable of thinking anything.
The staring contest stretched an uncomfortable distance without either of us breaking it. His eyes looked nearly black, and when the light from the screen hit them, the illusion of flames sparked in them, then vanished. Somewhere deep in my mind, a self-preservation instinct was screaming, THOSE ARE THE EYES OF A PREDATOR, but that was exactly why nature gave predators eyes like that. So dumb little rabbits like me wouldn’t stand a chance.
Don’t be a dumb bunny, January!
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said abruptly.
Gus smiled. “You just went to the bathroom.”
“I have a really tiny bladder,” I said.
“I’ll go with you.”
“That’s okay!” I chirped and, forgetting I was in a car, sat up so fast I slammedmy head into the roof.
“Shit!” Gus said at the same time I hissed out a confused, “WHAT?”
He bolted up and shuffled on his knees toward where I sat, clutching my head. “Let me see.” His hands cradled the sides of my face, tilting my head down so he could see the crown of my skull. “It’s not bleeding,” he told me, then angled my face back up into his, his fingers threaded gently through my hair. His eyes wandered down to my mouth, and his crooked lips parted.
Oh, damn.
I was a bunny.
I leaned toward him, and his hands went to my waist, drawing me onto his lap so that I was straddling him where he knelt. His nose brushed the side of mine, and I lifted my mouth under his, trying to close the gap between us. Our slow breaths pressed us into each other and his hands squeezed my sides, my thighs tightening against him in reaction.
One time one time one time was all I could think. That was his no-repeat policy, right? Would it really be so bad if something happened between us, just once? We could go back to being friends and neighbors who talked every day. Could I do casual hookup, this one time, with my college crush turned nemesis, seven years after the fact? I couldn’t think clearly enough to figure it out. My breathing was shaky and shallow; his was nonexistent.