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“I didn’t save your life…I hardly helped you to your feet.”
“No,” I promise. “It’s the low blood sugar thing. If you hadn’t been here…”
Her brow furrows. I study her face. I want to hate her. I want her to ask me to dinner. I want to be best friends. It doesn’t make any sense. These things never do.
“If you hadn’t been here, well, who knows if someone would have stopped. You know how people are these days…”
I see something in her demeanor shift. She falters momentarily, lets her guard down. Josie Dunn wants somebody to save.
She narrows her gaze. “That reminds me,” she smiles. “Do you go to church? ”
Later in the day, after I have an invitation to attend church with the Dunns, well technically just Josie Dunn, but still. It’s more than I could have hoped for, even just this morning. Fine, I’ll admit it. The invitation has taken me a quick minute to reconcile— I’d hardly taken them for the religious type— but I guess it’s nice to be surprised every now and then.
I go back to work, and all the while, I hope Josie will change her mind and take me up on that coffee. Every time the bell rings, I pray I’ll look up and see her standing there. Every. Single. Time. I don’t know what it is about her. I just know I have to see her again. And soon.
As I make my billionth latte of the afternoon, I hope she misses my face as much as I miss hers. She’s not here though. So I guess she doesn’t. But it’s okay, I guess. Luckily, I don’t have to miss her for long. Josie Dunn posts a picture of her and some leggy blonde woman at lunch with the hashtag #herestofriends. I study the photo carefully. I wish I were at home, where I could see it on a bigger screen than just my phone. Oh, well. At least this gives me something to look forward to.
I zoom in. She’s changed her clothes and fixed her hair. The two of them look smug, smiling at the camera. They’re dressed casually, in flowy tops, tight jeans and kitten heels. Also in a way that tells you their brand of casual is one that you could never afford. When I get a closer look, I can see they’re enjoying the most gorgeous salad I’ve ever seen with the hashtag #NewHope #blessed. The post gets 837 likes within an hour. This bums me out. I was wrong. I could never actually be Josie Dunn. One, I’d have to land a man like that, one that cares about surprises and shoes, and two, I don’t even think I know 837 people.
I breathe a sigh of defeat. Maybe if I can’t be Josie, I can at least be her sidekick. Anyway, it shouldn’t be too hard to assume the position. Her friend has nothing on her in terms of charisma. But even I have to admit, she is beautiful. I flip the camera on my phone and study myself. I tussle my hair. With a bit of money and a little work, you could be that.
I wasn’t going to eat anything for lunch but suddenly a salad sounds good. I zoomed in on their food, and I did my best to replicate what I saw. In fact, I’m eating it, forcing myself to like the taste of lettuce and health, when the doorbell chimes. I look up and just like that, my unspoken prayers have been answered. It’s not Josie Dunn.
It’s better.
It’s her husband.
I don’t know how I do it, but it seems the more I familiarize myself with them online, the more they seem to pop into my life when I least expect it. It’s like magic. Only not fake.
“Hello.” Grant greets me with the enthusiasm only a man of his stature can have. His voice is deep, and in it there’s something else, something beyond confidence. Something I can’t place. This time he’s in scrubs and one of those funny surgical hats, and it makes him look younger, much younger. I look down at my attire, and I curse myself for not putting in more effort. What a fool you are, thinking you could be like her. Look at him. He’d never want you. A glorified waitress, of all things.
I drop my fork and rest my hands on my hips. I don’t like looking at something I can’t have. I need to feel the rage. I need to feed it. “Let me guess. You want an Americano?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
I smooth my apron.
“Wow,” he says eyeing my food. “That looks good.”
I bite my lip and wonder if he’ll notice the similarity between his wife and I, even if there’s only this one.
If he does, he doesn’t say anything. He scans the menu. “My wife mentioned she had a sandwich here…” he says, trailing off. I watch him intently. My mouth goes dry. I fumble for words. None come to mind.
Eventually, he places the menu on the counter and he looks me up and down. “Do you remember my wife?”
It must be a trick question. I have to say yes. I’d be willing to bet they’re the kind of couple who tells each other everything. She probably sent him to collect the freebies I offered. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He smiles and it’s genuine. He likes thinking of her too. “The original orderer of the Americano?”
“Sure,” I say, heat rising in my belly. “She ordered the special.”
“I bet she did.” He grins at the thought, and I can see his love for her in his upturned lips. “I think I’ll have one of those—wait… you know what? Make it two.”
How nice that he wants the same, I think as I type the order in.
“She’s always appreciated a good surprise.”
“Do you want chips?” I ask dismissively. I could just put them in the bag, but with him it seems different. With him, it seems like going out of your way might have the opposite effect.
He raises his brow. “She had chips too, did she?”
