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“What happened to a basic hello?”
“We’re Bowers. We only call when something’s wrong.”
The sad truth of our lives. I massage my brow, attempting to untangle the ten thousand thoughts spinning through my head. “Jake is trying to get back together with Jo,” I say, my voice unpleasantly rough.
“Yeah…” E answers slowly.
“And Jo doesn’t seem keen on trying again.”
“Agreed.”
I glance at the envelope on my passenger seat. “Should I tell him she’s not interested”—should I light this letter on fire and dump the ashes in the trash—“or should I let it all play out?”
“Are you asking for your sake or for Jake’s?”
“This has nothing to do with me. I’m worried about Jake and Jo.”
He huffs out an annoyed sound. “As long as I’ve known you, Cal, which is twenty-nine mostly fucked-up years, your greatest and worst trait has been the same.”
“Which is what?” I ask the question guardedly, dreading the answer. E is intuitive and sensitive and digs deeper than the rest of our family—sees below our posturing into the heart of our worries. I’m suddenly not so sure calling him was a smart move.
He lets out a long breath. “You, Callahan, put other people before yourself.”
I squint at my dashboard. “What’s bad about that?”
“You don’t take care of yourself.”
“Sure I do. Making people happy makes me happy.”
“Are you really happy, though?”
I look at the windows of my home again, and the strangest urge to bust through the door strikes. To run up the stairs and check that Jo is actually inside.
“This call isn’t helping,” I say, my tone harder than usual. “But I appreciate the input,” I add quickly. “It’s always nice to talk.”
I never end conversations with my family on a bad note. Life is too unpredictable to live with regrets. Which, I guess, answers my question. I need to do as Jake requested and give Jolene his letter. Otherwise I might live another twelve years, worrying my involvement in their relationship wrecked their chance at love.
I tuck Jake’s envelope into my back pocket and get out of my truck. I jog up my stairs, mentally preparing myself for Jo’s usual chaotic war zone. When I open the door, my jaw nearly hits the floor.
Clean.
My home is so startlingly clean I could serve the president a five-course dinner on my hardwood floor. Jolene is in the kitchen, paying me no mind, soft jazz tunes playing as she grabs ingredients from the fridge.
“I must’ve walked into the wrong duplex,” I say, impressed by the sparse shoe collection neatly lined by the door.
“Right?” She spins and plants her hand on her hip. “Something had to be done. I live with such aslob. Had to clean up after the guy.”
I raise an eyebrow, trying not to laugh. “A slob?”
“You should see the way he leaves the bathroom.” She shudders. “Grooming products everywhere.”
“Sounds like he’s a horrible roommate.”
She gives a dramatic eye roll. “The worst.”
The worst is how cute she is when she’s being cheeky. “I bet he leaves water glasses all over the place too, tosses his underwear on the couch. Hasn’t figured out where the recycling is yet.”
She cringes. “He’s notthatbad.”
