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“Yes, we did things other than have sex, yes we went out in public, and yes I met one of his friends.
Technically we also ate and slept, we went out in public but had sex there as well, and I don’t know if meeting some of Leo’s friends in his kitchen while coming my brains out and speaking in tongues was something Joy would approve of, but she didn’t need to know any of that.
Rubbing my face, I groaned. “I really like this guy! He’s different, seriously.”
With a laugh, Joy shook her head, but worry etched a line between her brows. “Where have I heard that before?”
I cringed when I recalled how many times I’d told my friend the particular guy I was dating at the time was “different”. How this guy understood me, how we were a great couple, and all the other foolish things I’d deluded myself into believing. I’d stalk his social media and study up on everything he liked, so when we talked, he’d be dazzled by my knowledge of the things he loved, even if it was only a surface knowledge.
And Joy, patient and understanding Joy, was always there to dry my tears when the inevitable happened and my heart got broken—or at least bruised. And her curvy form was so squishy, she gave incredible hugs that just wrapped you up in softness and love.
Too bad we weren’t lesbians; she’d make a great girlfriend.
With a melodramatic sigh, I flopped back into the well-broken in couch. “But I really want to see him, and he made me promise I’d come over tonight.”
“He made you promise?”
“Yes,” I snarked, “he wants to see me and made me promise.”
“Hmmm, maybe he’s an even bigger stalker than you are, Hannah.”
I flipped her the bird. “Eat shit, Dolly Parton.”
“Whatever…but if he really asked you first,” she ignored my irritated glare, “then I suppose it’s okay.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“It’s just weird, this need-to-spend-time-with-you thing he has going on.”
Trying to keep the hurt out of my voice, I fiddled with my hair. “Yeah, because why the hell would any guy actually like me and want to be with me?”
Wincing and scrunching up her nose, Joy held her hands up. “Okay, that came out really bad.”
“It did.”
Somewhere above us, someone flushed their toilet and our cheap ceiling did little to muffle the rush of water while Joy pondered. “Don’t get me wrong, you are a stone-cold fox and I’ve been telling you that for years, but he seemed so sophisticated and…um, worldly when he was here.”
“Joy, just spit it out.”
“Don’t get mad, his body is smoking and that hair is something else, but isn’t he a little…mature for you?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just that, when he brought you home from the club that night, I couldn’t help but notice how different he was from us, how out of place he looked in our shithole. That gold watch of his was a custom job and it probably cost as much as a year’s tuition. I’m guessing from your new outfit that he likes to buy you things, expensive things. What kind of guy does that for a girl he barely knows? Does he want to be your sugar daddy or something?”
“No, he’s not my sugar daddy. I know it sounds crazy, but he really likes taking care of me. We went to some luxe golf club and got a couples’ massage,” I hoped she didn’t notice the way my cheeks were heating, “then had lunch and went for a walk through their gardens. He held my hand and talked to me, told me about growing up poor and how he loved being able to take care of his mom before she died.”
“Wow, he talked to you about his mom dying? That’s big.”
“I know.”
“Did you talk about your sister?”
“I did, and I cried a little, but not my usual breakdown. And he held me while I cried, didn’t say anything, just held me.”
I thought of his response when I’d sent him a picture of me in my new outfit, his praise and admiration, the way he made me feel so beautiful, so good.
Joy glowered at me.
“What?”
“You keep spacing out and getting this silly smile on your face like you’re high.” She gnawed on her lower lip while staring at me hard enough to make me squirm. “This is worse than I thought. You really like him.”
“I told you I like him.”
“He sounds pretty intense, Hannah. I’m not sure if you need that type of guy in your life.”
“What type of guy?”
“The type I’m not sure you’re ready for.”
Joy was a fixer. She liked to find broken people and attempt to fix them, which worked out pretty much never. I was her favorite project, a childhood friend she’d seen shatter before her eyes. Her almost maternal need to take care of me probably wasn’t healthy, but it made both of us happy in a completely dysfunctional, codependent way.
