Full Package(55)

She crosses her arms. She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she purses her lips then speaks softly. “I don’t want you to leave.”

I reach for her elbow, desperation spiraling in me. But I’m not even sure what I’m fighting for—for her to see what we could become, or for her to let me go. “You want to stay friends, don’t you?”

She nods. “You know I do.”

I grip her arm tighter. “And you said this had to end. Josie, it’s too hard for me to be here right now. You’ve got to understand.”

A tear slides down her cheek. Then one trickles over the other. More fall, like a summer rain shower. She swipes at her cheeks, but she’s fighting an uphill battle.

I’m torn between wanting to pull her in my arms and comfort her and needing to protect myself. But there’s something else at play, too. Morbid curiosity. That wins. “Josie,” I say, and she draws a sharp inhale and looks up. “Was it that way for you?”

She parts her lips, but no answer comes because a loud rap of knuckles reverberates through the apartment.

“Did you order lunch or something?” I ask.

She shakes her head and turns on her heel, heading for the door. “The doorman called a few minutes ago. He had to take care of something on our floor so he offered to bring up the package.”

The knocking continues. “Ah, your rolling pin.”

“Probably.” Her voice is empty.

She peers through the peephole then nods at me. She unlocks and opens the door. A short, stout man in a green blazer stands at the threshold. The day doorman.

“Ms. Hammer, this is for you,” he says, then hands her a white envelope. The legal size.

She regards it curiously. “What is this?”

“I signed for it yesterday. It’s a certified letter.”

He turns to go, and she lets the door fall closed. She looks at me then at the envelope. I shrug and gesture to the item in her hand. Open it. She takes out a sheet of paper and reads.

After a minute, she blinks and meets my eyes. “It’s from the landlord.” Her voice is a barren whisper.

“What did he say?”

“Mr. Barnes needs the apartment for his niece,” she says heavily, then shakes her head like she can’t believe the hand she was just dealt. “We have to be out in a month. We’re losing our home.”

Looks like our days of playing house truly are over.





32





From the pages of Josie’s Recipe Book



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Josie’s Misery Salad





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Ingredients

Lettuce Tomatoes Carrots Whatever





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Wash lettuce. Even on days like this you don’t want to eat unwashed lettuce.

Slice some tomatoes like you fucking care.

Cut up some carrots. Doesn’t even matter if you peel them.

Toss some oil and vinegar in it. Or don’t. Whatever.

Eat it, especially since you need to punish yourself more. You totally effed up. You know you did. Where do we even start? Everywhere. From the beginning right on through to the other day when you watched him walk out the door. Idiot. You don’t deserve sweets.





33





I’d like to say I bury myself in work that next week, but that would do a disservice to every other day I’ve tended to a wound, or stitched up a knee, or removed a mustard jar from a butt.

Hey, it’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.

Anyway, work saves me.

I’ve always buried myself in it, but I like to think that’s the only way to do the job. To give all of myself to it. I’m glad I have a job that demands everything of me. Mercy gets not only one hundred percent of my focus, but one hundred and ten percent. Maybe this is the real lucky-bastard life—to have a job I love so much that I don’t even have time to think about the girl I miss. At the end of each work day, I’m relieved I’ve logged ten or twelve hours without thinking about her.

The trouble is my shift ends every evening.

That’s when the missing begins in earnest, pain like a phantom limb, a persistent reminder of what I don’t have anymore.

One night after work, Wyatt texts me to meet up with him and Nick, telling me it’s softball season and I need to get my ass to Central Park.

I go, and I’m both grateful and really fucking depressed that Josie’s not playing this year. Nick hits a home run; that’s par for the course for him. I manage a small degree of satisfaction when I knock in two runners during my turn at bat.

That feeling fades, though, when I leave, head downtown, and check my phone. There’s no note from Josie. I sigh heavily as I flop down on the couch at Max’s home, absently fiddling with the screen. I could write to her. I could text her. I should.

But it’s too fucking hard. I didn’t even see her when I stopped by the apartment a few days ago to grab the rest of my things. I made sure to go when I knew she’d be at work.

When Max comes home with Chinese takeout and beer, I switch off the Josie portion of my brain and turn on the hunger lobe. That does the trick, and I do find a small degree of pleasure in knowing I’m returning to old habits. I haven’t completely lost my dependable talent for compartmentalization. It’s like a renaissance of sorts, as I’m remade back into the guy who isn’t head over heels for a girl.