Page 32 of Back for Seconds

My dad’s temperament was infamous. He was the type of guy who saw his family and his business as a pseudo-fiefdom. Taking care of people was a wonderful opportunity to secure power, to ensure that he always had something to hang over people’s heads. He was constantly defending something or someone’s honor—whether they liked it or not.

I snorted, just the mention of family setting off an anxious trill in my stomach. “We’ve known each other for forty-eight hours, and you’ve already seen how stubborn I am. Try and imagine where I came from.”

Joey smirked, giving the now-empty sink one last rinse before crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back to observe me. “Do you think if you’d taken all the data points about your relationship and had fed them into an algorithm you could have predicted your own divorce?”

“Huh.” I frowned. “That’s a good question. I should have tried.”

“But you’re too much of a romantic to ever do anything like that.”

I scrunched my nose at him. “Am I now?”

“Yeah, Junebug.” He winked and clicked his tongue at me. “Not too hard to read yourself.”

We cleaned the kitchen until it was spotless, wiping down all the counters and scrubbing at the stovetop until it shined. I wanted to think it was because we both were having fun—so much fun. The most fun I’d had with someone of the opposite gender in years. Once the trash was taken out and Joey had lazily passed a broom over the smooth hardwood floors, we both stopped, standing on opposite sides of the enormous island, and stared at each other.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Joey asked, slipping his hair free from the elastic band and shaking his curls loose. He’d pulled off his shirt at some point in the process of our deep clean to reveal an A-shirt and the otherworldly bulge of his professionally developed biceps, a thin gold chain glinting around his neck in the kitchen light. His skin was a deep golden olive, and he had a sweet smattering of beauty marks over his arms. Unlike my skin, his was completely devoid of any tattoos. A smooth, blank canvas.

Usually the sight of a man in a tank top would have sent me running, but Joey was so at ease with himself—with the heavy masculinity radiating off his big body and strong features. He didn’t seem concerned with stereotypes; he knew who he was. I was beginning to think he could do anything and I would find it attractive.

“Sure,” I said, pulling off my own sweater over my head. The heat must have kicked on while we were working away at cleaning the kitchen, because my cheeks felt flush and my hands clammy. His gaze flickered from my eyes to the collar of my cropped T-shirt, sweeping over my chest, sending the heat in my face downward. I wanted him to cross the room, grab me, kiss me again—harder and faster. I wanted to feel his thumbs pressing into my spine as his fingers tightened on my skin.

But Joey didn’t reach for me. He padded over to the enormous sectional couch set up in front of a mounted TV and his sparsely decorated Christmas tree, pressed a few buttons, and turned on an electric fireplace underneath the TV. Through the sliding glass deck doors, the night was an unending blanket of winter darkness, the trees and grass indistinguishable from one another. Joey claimed one corner of the couch, and I took the other. I’d already been horny enough. If he wanted to be close, Joey could make the first move.

“We obviously have to watch a Christmas movie,” he said, pulling a cable knit blanket down off the back of the couch and tossing it my way. “To help fix you.”

I swallowed against the immediate bob of dread in my throat, letting the blanket hit me with a soft thunk. I made no move to unfold it and swaddle myself. “Fine. But nothing sappy, please. I need to ease myself into the Christmas spirit.”

“Hmmm.” Joey kept his eyes trained on the TV, one arm extended across the back of the couch, feet propped up on the glass coffee table in front of us.

This house is so nice, I thought. Why wouldn’t his ex have wanted to live here? It wasn’t in downtown Evergreen, sure, but town was close enough—the bay had to be a five-minute drive away. The beach, another ten. There was nothing so far away as to feel cut off from the world.

There had to be something else. Something he wasn’t telling me.

I cut my eyes to Joey. His gaze snagged on mine. “What about Gremlins?”

It didn’t matter. There was plenty I would never divulge to him.

We could stay put, right here in this half friendship. Joey on one side of the couch, me on the other. Plenty of space and secrets and baggage between us.

I knew better than to give in to all these chemical reactions happening in my brain, making me want him. I knew that following the intoxicating trail of a great first date and an earth reorienting kiss wouldn’t lead anywhere good.

I didn’t need another man to steal my next kitchen table. What I needed were more friends. More people who, after just one meal, made me feel infinitely less alone. Sleeping with someone (anyone!), at this point, felt as likely for me as qualifying for the US Olympic floor gymnastics team.

Why not treat it like what it was? A pipe dream. A fantasy.

“You know what?” I snuggled under the blanket. “That sounds perfect.”

***

I wasn’t sure how or when I fell asleep, but I was completely certain that the rivulet of drool falling from my mouth onto the back of my hand and the gentle vibration of my phone in my back pocket was what woke me up. I snapped awake, my body half covered by the blanket, flopped sideways. Joey had fallen asleep beside me, one of his enormous hands resting on the top of my head. I carefully slipped out from underneath his touch, pulled on my sweater and jacket, and snuck out the front door, leaving it ajar behind. The cold night air was a welcome balm on my hot, dry face.

“Hello?” I said, answering the phone.

“Yooo, little guy! Sleepy head!”

I smiled at the sound of my brother’s voice. “Sally, why is it you only ever call me at midnight?”

“I just got off work! Don’t bust my balls.” I could hear the din of the restaurant kitchen around him—doors opening and shutting, glassware clanking, the industrial dishwasher whirring. “What’re you doin’?”