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“Can I get you something?” he asks. “Water? Vodka?”
“In the freezer,” I tell him, indicating to the latter. “And a couple shot glasses. They’re in the cabinet above the microwave.”
I sit down on the couch while I hear him rifle through my things. If I were in a better mental state, I’d do it all myself. My mother trained me to be an excellent host and to never make people lift a finger when they’re guests in your home. But I suppose James isn’t a guest anymore. The first time, maybe, but he’s been here before.
His large frame does look even bigger in my tiny place. His presence takes up every extra square foot of space, and I have the ridiculous notion that he could wear my apartment like a glove. I get the image of Alice in Wonderland wearing a house as a dress and it makes me laugh. Then I think of him doing the same and I laugh harder. He must think I’m totally insane when he walks back into the living room with the vodka and glasses.
Rather than saying a word, he just sits down next to me and pours us shots of straight vodka, no chaser. This is exactly what I need right now, something quick and efficient to numb all of these things I’m feeling. It’s the fear and anticipation and hope that maybe he’ll see me as something other than a coworker, something more than a friend.
“Have you pissed off any parents lately?” he asks, only half-jokingly.
I grab the bottle from him and pour another full shot, gulping it down in one breath. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and shake my head firmly.
“My dad is . . .” no, I don’t want to have this conversation. “He’s someone who pisses off a lot of people,” I finish. That was a close one.
“So you think someone sent this to you to mess with him?”
I nod slowly. “Mess with him, mess with me, it’s truly all the same thing. The only difference is they know I won’t retaliate. I’m not even going to tell him. That’s the ridiculous part about it. He’s never going to avenge what he doesn’t know about.”
“Is that why you don’t tell him?” he asks carefully. “Because you think he’s going to make someone pay for trying to hurt you?”
“No, I think he’d tell me that I need to be more careful and it’s my fault for choosing to work at a youth center. He thinks I work with like . . . hardened criminals or something.”
He laughs sharply, the sound settling into my senses and soothing my worries. If he laughed all day long, I’d never be afraid of anything. The sound of his laughter would get rid of all the monsters hiding in my closet.
“That Marcus really is terrifying,” he jokes. “I once watched him use a saw upside down. Like a sociopath.”
I giggle, feeling the alcohol warm my body and work its way into my bloodstream. I didn’t expect to feel so easy around him. Though I wish some things were a little easier. Like crossing that physical boundary again. I’m dying for him to close the space between us and kiss me like I’m a heroine in one of my mom’s guilty beach reads. It’s obvious he doesn’t want that. Even now, with me in a vulnerable position and getting drunker by the minute, he’s keeping several inches of space between us.
I decide then and there that I’m not going to waste any more time having feelings for someone who doesn’t have feelings for me. If he just wants to be friends, then we will just be friends, and that will be enough. I do like having him around, so I’ll take him however I can get him.
He grabs the remote off the coffee table and flicks on the TV. The sound fills the space and overwhelms my senses. I realize belatedly that we’ve just been sitting in silence and my ears are ringing from the quiet. The news is on, of course. It’s always on. My dad would disown me if I didn’t watch the morning and nightly news. Sometimes he’ll ask me questions about the stories just to make sure I’m really watching.
An anchor signs off and commercials start. There’s one for a hair loss treatment, then immediately one for erectile dysfunction. Apparently, men in my father’s age bracket are the target demographic for this news program. James shifts uncomfortably and I notice there’s a slight pink tinge on his ears.
Then the worst commercial of all starts. There, in life size, is Davis Thompson smiling his politician smile and making promises about what he’ll do to help protect New Orleans if he’s voted mayor. I grab the remote and change the channel, already tired of his face. James looks at me in surprise, but I just shrug.
“I’m not a huge fan of politics,” I tell him. “I hate this time of year, when every other commercial is some politician trying to lie to me about what they believe in or bashing their opponent. It’s exhausting.”
He just hums and focuses on whatever 90s sitcom is on. I don’t bother looking for anything else as we start to lean into each other and focus on the canned laugh tracks. The vodka is starting to go to my head and I feel sleepy. It would be easy to just close the gap between us and lay my head on his shoulder. He’d probably put his arm around me without even really thinking about it. That would be totally within the realm of friendship, right?
There’s a sharp rap on my front door and I snap back to my senses, my heart racing. I didn’t order anything and it’s nearly 10 p.m. There’s no way my elderly neighbor across the hall is stopping in for a social visit. I look over at James, my eyes wide, and he takes my cue. He stands up and walks to the door.
I cower in my seat, too afraid to see who it might be. I’m being silly, I know that, but I still can’t get that voodoo doll out of my mind. With my luck lately, it’s probably an axe murderer standing outside with a knife. I hear James mutter something quietly but firmly, then he slams the door in the person’s face. The lock clicks into place and he lingers there for a moment too long. My senses are back on high alert.
“Who was it?” I ask as he sits back down next to me, a little closer this time.
“Pizza delivery to the wrong apartment,” he mutters, yawning. “It was probably nothing, I’m just a little on edge on your behalf.”
My heart melts at his words. He cares about me, that’s obvious enough. But does he care about me as a friend, or someone he wants to sleep with again? My head feels heavy and the question is more than I can think about.
“Could you stay tonight?” The words leave my mouth without my permission. My heart hammers in my chest and hours seem to stretch by while I’m waiting for him to answer.
“Of course I can,” he answers with a nonchalant shrug, then puts his arm around me and pulls me against him. I close my eyes and relax into his embrace.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
“Haven’t seen you in a few days,” Buffy says with a smile as he pours me my usual: whiskey sour on the rocks.
