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When he finally died, I saw Jon cry for the first time and it was hard to take. Jon is always such a joker, fun-loving and quick with a smile or laugh. We embraced that day when he returned from saying goodbye and I worried that it would turn into more, but at the last minute we thought better of it and broke the embrace.
I sigh and catch Marina’s eye. She raises her eyebrows and points to her watch, a signal that my date will be arriving soon.
That sends my heart-rate racing and suddenly, I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate.
"Excuse me," I say and pick up my bag. "I'll be right back."
I practically run to the bathroom and close myself in a stall, trying not to panic. I take in a few deep breaths and recite my mantra.
Oh, God. What will Jon say? He'll be relentless.
I swear I spend more time with Jon than anyone else. Don't get me wrong – I love the guy. He's like my alter-ego. He's brave and fearless and a crazy man, while I'm shy and reserved and cautious. I need his fearlessness to accomplish anything, but this blistering pace at work is just wearing me down. I can barely remember the last time I was kissed – really kissed. Or the last time a man touched me intimately.
Actually, I can remember. It was Blaine, my ex, who left for Manhattan a year ago. I miss having a relationship. Sure, my last one ended badly with a broken heart on my part, but it was something, at least.
I was in love with Blaine and I thought he was in love with me. We had a lot of sex. We laughed and watched movies together. It was real – or so I thought. But Blaine left for New York and never looked back. I swor
e to myself when I watched him board that plane for the last time that, one day, it would be me leaving the past behind me and living the life I wanted.
So, I've put my head down and tried to focus on something besides the ache in the middle of my chest. And I've worked hard – harder than anyone else. Anyone besides Jon, that is. But I'm lonely.
I want someone deep and real. It might take me a couple more years to have the seed money I need to start my own company but I don't think I can face another two years without someone in my life.
That was why I did Marina's crazy questionnaire. That's why I agreed to go on a date with Thomas, but I had no idea it would be tonight.
After about five minutes, my pulse calms down. Then, my cell dings. I take it out and see it's Marina.
MARINA: He's here. Get your ass out of the bathroom.
INDIA: Jon's gonna freak.
MARINA: Fuck Jon. Get out here now!
INDIA: Oh, crap…
MARINA: Just come out. Thomas won't bite. He's really very erudite and cultured.
INDIA: It's not Thomas I'm worried about. It's Jon.
MARINA: I said, fuck Jon. No, I take that back. Fuck Thomas.
INDIA: Oh, crap…
I put my cell back in my bag and leave the stall, washing my hands while I check myself out in the mirror. I pull my hair out of the tight bun and let it fall over my shoulders and down my back. I put my glasses away in my bag and run some gloss over my lips. I can't see very well without my glasses, but I can't wear contacts, so I'll have to squint.
I saw his picture. He's definitely handsome, in a rugged way.
I pull off my jacket and unbutton one of my buttons, showing a tiny bit more cleavage. Gotta use every weapon in the old feminine arsenal.
I paste a smile on my face and walk out of the bathroom and back into the bar.
Then I see the two of them sitting side by side – Jon with his arms crossed, his biceps bulging, his legs spread wide. His head is down and he's glaring at me. His handsome face – all square-jawed and scruff and perfect – is angry. His sun-bleached dark blond hair falls in his eyes in that sexy way, and his blue eyes are narrowed. I'd like to imagine that’s jealousy in his eyes, but then I realize that it's really just contempt. His full lips are pressed tightly together.
He's pissed.
I feel his gaze move over my body, from my head to my feet and back again. He must have noticed that I've fiddled with my hair and unbuttoned my blouse.
I take a deep breath and walk up, trying to prepare myself for the onslaught.
