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Josie
“You know the rules, Jos—.”
“I know,” I tell him. Let no man or woman come between what God has created. I don’t tell him I accepted those rules when I was young, pliable, and hopelessly in love. What good would it do? I may no longer be the former but I can’t say with absolution that I’m not the latter. “It’s just…well, I feel terrible. I shouldn’t have talked her into it…”
He looks over at me and smiles. It's the reassuring kind, the kind he's best known for these days.
“But it was your job. You couldn’t have known this was going to happen.”
I take a deep breath in, and I hold it. He’s right. I can’t fault him for all of it, even though I desperately want to.
He makes a left turn, hard and fast. I slide across the leather seat, shifting more than I mean to. “I think you’re overreacting,” he tells me calmly. “I checked the calendar this morning, in preparation, and you’re on cycle day 22. So—” he says, patting my knee. “A little emotional upheaval is to be expected.”
I clear my throat. Even after all this time, years spent with a person, sharing their bed, sharing a life, sometimes you see a thing coming and sometimes you don’t.
“What’s done is done, Josie. Premenstrual or not, do I really need to remind you of the agreement?”
Never second guess a decision once it’s been made.
“No,” I admit “It’s just nerves, you know. I hate to think there is more we could be doing.”
I watch his jaw tighten, flex, and release. I watch his knuckles go from pink to white as he grips the wheel, and I know that was the wrong thing to say. Lying is a punishable offense under the agreement he’s referring to. So I tiptoe around the truth instead. “I’m sure she’s in good hands.”
“She’ll be fine,” he says. I study his profile. He doesn’t look worried. Maybe I shouldn’t, either. “Anyway, it’s out of our control at this point. All we can do is pray,” he adds, repositioning his hands on the wheel. He stretches his fingers, and then glances toward me. He’s looking to see that I’m on board, and on his face I see it. The calm, in-control mask goes up. “And in any case, she probably won't be there long. Once they treat the infection, she’ll be good as new.”
“I know,” I assure him. I know when to give him what he wants.
He stares straight ahead. “Sometimes these things happen…”
“You're right,” I reply, not because I necessarily believe him but because I know there's nothing more to be said. My husband has that way about him. He’s an expert at letting you know when the conversation is over, without ever having to say so. I don’t tell him how guilty I feel over the whole thing. June was—June is— my friend. I mean, not the real kind. It’s been a long time since I’ve had one of those. She?
?s my Sister In God, my mentor, both New Hope terms, but still. She didn’t want that surgery. Her husband wanted it. She told me it wouldn’t go well. She knew. But given our friendship, given that she was my mentor, it was my job to talk her into doing what her husband said. Checks and balances.
“I’m going to drop you off,” Grant informs me, interrupting my thoughts. He says it so casual and cool. Always so cool. “I have to head to the office.”
“The office?” I say as though it’s some crazy, far-fetched idea.
“Should I pick up dinner on my way home?” he asks, and this is his way of not answering my question directly. He’s very skilled at a lot of things, evasion being high on the list.
I shift in my seat. “You're going into work today?” It's a stupid question, one that he’s already answered, in typical fashion, by presenting another question. So, I don't know why I asked, or why my voice raises, turns high-pitched and needy, which is exactly why he gives me the side-eye. I take it for what it is, a warning.
I swallow hard. Suddenly, I wish I hadn’t opened my mouth. I should have known better. On all fronts. Grant is married to his work, so why I thought he’d take the entire day off is beyond me— I should've assumed. I guess every once in a while it's nice to be surprised.
“Josie—please.” He places his hand over mine. “We’ve had a good morning.”
If you consider visiting a friend who might be dying— all the while knowing it might very well be your fault— a good morning, then yes, I guess you’re right. I almost say this to him. I feel like the words could glide out into open air, into the space between us, so easily. But I bite them back. I know where that kind of mistake leads, and it’s nowhere good. Plus, it won’t help anyway. I know he has a full schedule. I know his patients are demanding. “I’m sorry,” I say, because I know how much he hates it when I raise my voice. Also, I wouldn’t understand what it’s like having work that you love. This is what he’s thinking. He hasn’t said it yet. Sometimes I like to beat him to the punch.
“Dinner?” he reminds me. “Do I need to get dinner?”
“No.” I scroll through my phone. Snap a photo of my shoes next to the Porsche logo on the floor mat and post it to Instalook. Caption it with: Love mornings with my man.
Scrolling through my feed, I glance up. He likes it when I post on Instalook. Superficiality is his specialty. “I have to pick up Avery from dance at four. Then I plan to head back up to see June. I'll fix something and leave it in the fridge between now and then…”
He frowns. “You won’t be home when I arrive?”
I like eighteen photos. Not so different from my own. Fifteen of them are members of the church, the other three, we’re trying to recruit.
“Josie.”
