Page 70 of Lessons in Lemonade

“Yes. Actually, I own it. It’s my restaurant.” The words come out strained, and he hears it. His brows furrow just a little, but then my admission sinks in and his brows reverse and rise in surprise. Heck, I’m surprised, too—I never tell people this. I don’t know why I’m telling him now, but he pauses on the sidewalk to stop and look at me.

“You’re the owner of OBA?” It sounds like a question, but it’s not; it’s more of a statement.

A knot forms in my throat, and instead of answering him with words, my lips stay pressed together and I murmur, “Mmmhmm.”

“Wow. That’s great.”

We start walking again and he proceeds to talk to fill in the awkward silence I’m creating between us. He tells me where we’re headed to eat, what he does for a living, and how it’s his job that brought him to Charleston. He tells me it was his sister’s idea for him to join a dating site to meet people but says he would kill her if she ever did. No offense to me, but he worries about her safety.

At that, an unwanted noise escapes me. The guilt that descended upon me at the restaurant now morphs into something so suffocating I feel like I can’t breathe. Jack hated me going on these dates, and although I am free to live my life how I choose, the thought of worrying him or disappointing him even more has me catching my heel in a crack in the sidewalk and stumbling.

“Whoa. Are you okay?” Jason asks, quickly reaching out to steady me with his hand on my elbow.

I snatch it away instantly, and he holds his hands up in surrender as he takes a step back.

“Sorry,” I say softly, turning to face him. “Yes,” I mumble in response to his question, my eyes filling with tears. He sees them and lets out a deep sigh, his hands landing on his hips. That’s when “No” is whispered from somewhere deep in my soul and passes through my lips. I’m realizing my feelings for Jack aren’t as locked away as I thought they were.

“Oh, man,” Jason murmurs, running one hand over the back of his neck and looking at the ground. “The moment I saw you, I knew this was too good to be true.” He shakes his head.

What do I say? I feel so stupid, but Taylor was right—this is wrong.

“Okay, this date is officially over.” He stands up straight and frowns.

“What?” I ask, my eyes flying to his face to meet his while relief takes over and I wonder if I somehow said those words out loud.

“Yeah, to be honest, I just got out of a long-term relationship, and I wasn’t really ready to put myself back out there in the first place. I just did so to make my sister happy, but still, I’m starving, and I need to eat. This place we’re going to is supposed to have an amazing carbonara dish, and I love hanging out with my friends. So, friend, are you hungry, too?”

He still wants to have dinner with me, even though I just gave off hot-mess vibes.

He wants to be friends.

We can be friends.

With this thought, the invisible ropes that were squeezing me tighter and tighter with each step loosen. I love making new friends, and as long as he’s figured out that’s all we’ll ever be, nothing more, I can do this.

Aside from being my friend, the one thing he’ll never be is my best friend.

Spaghetti Carbonara

“ALL RIGHT THERE, Jack. Let’s finish today with bending over and letting your arms dangle so your hands can touch your toes. Then roll up to a mountain pose while inhaling through your nose and exhaling at the top.”

I replay what she just said to me while staring down at the teal mat, and I feel a pulse of irritation thump at the side of my head.

That’s right. She said . . . fucking . . . toe touches.

I feel Jeanine move from her mat to stand in front of me to help with balance if I need it, and to make sure I don’t fall, which I won’t—I’d rather die first. After all these years and all this time, I’ve been reduced to this: doing yoga. On top of that, I can’t even hardly stand here with both feet on the floor and both legs locked out straight. Heat flares in my face as even more anger builds inside me.

Dr. Leffers told me both feet would be flat on the floor after six weeks and I would be able to do toe touches without any problem, and I was. It’s a weight-bearing exercise where you use your body to rebuild strength in the leg. Hell, over the last couple of weeks, Eddie and I moved way past this to running in the hydrotherapy tank and doing both open and closed chain activities. We did seated leg extensions, hamstring curls, calf pumps, squats, deadlifts, lunges, power cleans, and leg presses, but with the swelling not really receding, this is all the trainers are letting me do.

Fucking yoga.

I get it; I do. There are plenty of studies out there that show how great this form of exercise is for all kinds of athletes, but I don’t want to be doing this and this alone. I want to be out with my team, sprinting with a parachute, working drills with Bryan, and doing exercises like hop and switch, not a warrior pose. At this point, I want to kill all the warriors along with their downward dogs, and then I want to throw Jeanine off all the different planks to drown in the water.

I know it’s not her fault. I just want my life back.

Then again, the sixty-four-million-dollar question is: What life is that?

When I open my eyes, there she is, just like I knew she would be, and she’s frowning. Now I feel even worse. She’s just trying to help me, and although I’m going through the motions, this really isn’t benefiting me. I don’t feel calm or centered. I don’t feel as if I’ve just had this amazing workout, and I don’t feel like I am progressing at all. Actually, I feel like I’m regressing physically, mentally—just all of the above—and it sucks.