Full Package(19)

“And that was the end of your Broadway dreams.”

She imitated squashing a bug with her hand, and then she sang a line from the song. She was woefully off-key, and I joined in, committing equal musical crimes with my terrible voice.

“Don’t tell my brothers.”

“It’s our secret,” I’d said.

And it has been. Ever since.

“Anyway,” she says, returning to the story of Damien. “The next time, he took me to a book signing. JoJo Moyes was in town, and he knew I loved her work so we went to An Open Book, where I met her and had her sign Me Before You.”

My hatred for him intensifies. Josie loves that book. And I just know that somehow this douche nozzle used that information to take advantage of her. “You told me all about it last year. How torn up you were over the ending. How it made you think about so many things.”

She nods, a small smile playing on her lips. “It did. I’m not saying I agree with the choices made, but that book just touched me,” she says, patting her heart. Then she moves her hand to her head, tapping her temple. “And it made me think.”

“I liked hearing your reaction when you wrote to me about it.”

“And I liked sharing that with you,” she says, then takes a beat. “And I told him, too. How it made me think. How it made me feel.” She heaves a sigh. “So he took me to the signing. He was trying to be everything he thought I wanted, so he could get what he wanted.”

She swallows, and yup, I know where this story is going. And it’s not because Wyatt gave me the spoiler. It’s etched in her eyes and colors her voice, and I wish I could erase any hurt she’s ever been through. “A few more dates, a few more kisses, a few more times rolling out the Josie Hammer red carpet.” She glances away momentarily, then she shakes her head and looks at me. “Then we slept together.”

And even though I knew that was coming, I can’t control the green-eyed monster that thrashes in my belly, fighting to break free.

I can, however, control what I do about it.

“And?” I ask, keeping my tone even.

“It was good,” she says, matter-of-factly, and the creature rattles the bars, kicking and screaming. But I don’t give in.

“And he didn’t call the next day?”

A deep breath. A sheen over her eyes. “I waited. Stupidly.” Her voice is feather-thin. “Like my phone was an extension of my hand. I even texted him the next evening. Like a foolish girl. ‘Hey,’” she says, adopting a too-cheery tone. “‘Hope you had a great day. I know I did. Thinking of you.’”

My stomach churns with anger. With righteous rage. “Did he ever write back?”

She nods. “Once. That night. He said, ‘Day was great.’”

The dude couldn’t even say my day was great.

“And is that all you ever heard from him?”

“Yes. He changed his status to available and looking the next morning. And I never heard from him again.”

“He’s one of the biggest wastes of space on the planet,” I say as I squeeze her hand. “He doesn’t deserve you, and he’s a complete ass for leading you on. If he walked through the door right now, I’d . . .” I search the table, and grab an orange bottle. I brandish it like a weapon. “I’d douse his eyes with Tabasco.”

She smiles. “But that’d be a waste of good Tabasco.”

I grab the pepper shaker. “Line up a dozen pepper shakers outside the door, and lurk in the corner till he tripped on them, bonking his skull in the process.”

Her smile turns to a full-blown grin. “Now you’re tempting me.”

I hold a finger in the air. “Wait. I’ve got it. Record myself singing ‘Scotland’s Burning’ and hack his phone so it plays repeatedly, driving him insane with my horrible singing voice.”

She laughs so loudly she snorts. It’s fucking adorable and rewarding at the same time. “If we really want to torture him, we’d make it a duet,” she says, her green eyes twinkling with the prospect of an epic prank.

I hold up my hand for a high five. She slaps my palm then weaves her fingers through mine. I squeeze back, then lightly drag my fingertips over the soft skin of her hand. Her eyes flicker with something else now, a different type of excitement, one I haven’t seen from her before, but one I find I want more of.

The look vanishes too quickly when the waitress arrives.

“Waffles for two,” she says in her thick Long Island accent, snapping her gum as she serves the plates.

We thank her, and when the waitress leaves, Josie picks up her fork. “Seriously, though, what can you do? Everyone gets Damiened sooner or later. It’s not like something so terrible happened to me. It just hurt, but I’m over it. I wanted you to know, though, since you asked.”

“Hey, don’t discount it because it happens to others. A stomachache from the flu might not be as bad as appendicitis, but both can hurt.”

She smiles. “That’s true.”

“I’m just sorry I wasn’t here to kick his ass.” I dig into my waffles. “Also, this needs to be said. But . . . Damien? Wasn’t that kind of an omen? Get it? Because of the movie?”

She laughs. “I’m learning to read the signs. Clearly, I have a way to go. But now you’re here, and I have a live-in translator.”