The Girl He Used to Know(50)
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I was curled up in a little ball on his lap, and I never wanted to leave. “Yes.”
“I love you, Annika Rose.” He wiped away my tears and kissed my forehead, my cheek, my lips.
“I love you, Jonathan Hoffman.”
He started laughing. “You put me in the same category of love as your cat.”
“But I love Mr. Bojangles!”
“I know you do. You love him as much as you love me. And that’s funny because you make no attempt to hide it.”
“But why is it funny?”
“Because most people like their boyfriends a little bit more than they like their pets. And if they don’t, they probably don’t say it out loud.”
“You can love both.”
“Yes, you can.” Jonathan kissed me again and soon we weren’t doing much talking at all. Janice had mentioned having more make-up sex with Joe than any other guy she’d dated. She told me it made the arguments worth it, and the way I felt that night, as we made up right on Jonathan’s couch, I would have to agree even though the couch wasn’t nearly as comfortable as his bed.
“I want to stay together after we graduate,” Jonathan said afterward. “There are plenty of libraries in New York. We’ll both get jobs and we can go to grad school at night. We’ll probably have to live in a crappy apartment even smaller than this one, but someday I’ll make enough for us to live anywhere we want. Say you’ll come with me, Annika.”
I told him I loved him again, and then I told him I would.
27
Jonathan
CHICAGO
AUGUST 2001
Nate and his new girlfriend are waiting at the bar when Annika and I arrive at the restaurant. The woman is completely Nate’s type, or at least the type he’s been dating since the divorce: late twenties, club attire, pretty. I won’t know until we’re seated and having a conversation if she’s an improvement over the last one, who talked incessantly about the TV show Survivor and drank several frozen strawberry daiquiris that gave her “the most awful brain freeze.”
Nate and I shake hands. “This is Sherry,” he says.
“Jonathan,” I say. “Nice to meet you. This is Annika.”
Annika smiles, shakes hands, and maintains brief eye contact with both of them. She’s wearing a long, full skirt, which is in direct contrast to Sherry’s super short dress and skyscraper high heels, but Annika’s top clings slightly in all the right places, and I’ve been glancing appreciatively down its deep-vee neckline since I arrived at her apartment. Nate appraises her and shoots me a quick, approving look, which I ignore because we’re not twenty-two anymore. Also, he can’t read my mind, so he doesn’t know my thoughts about the cleavage.
Our table is ready and once we’re seated, I take a look at the drink menu. Nate asks Sherry what she’d like to drink and she says “Chardonnay” as if she’d had the kind of day only wine could fix.
“Would you like a glass of wine or would you prefer this?” I ask Annika, pointing to the one nonalcoholic option the restaurant offers, a mix of mango, cranberry, and orange juice with a splash of ginger ale.
“I’ll have the Chardonnay,” Annika says.
“Jonathan tells me you’re a librarian,” Nate says.
“Yes.”
Nate waits for Annika to provide details, but he’s greeted with silence. “Where?” he finally asks.
“The Harold Washington Library.”
“How long have you been there?”
“Six years, three months, and thirteen days. How long have you been at your job?”
Nate laughs. “I’m not sure I can answer that as thoroughly as you have. You’ve put me on the spot.”
Annika shoots me a quick look as she tries to decipher whether he’s kidding, so I smile at her. “Don’t listen to him. I bet he can tell you the exact date of his retirement, right down to the minute.”
“You got me,” Nate says.
“What do you do, Sherry?” I ask.
“I’m a scientist.”
Okay. Did not see that coming.
Nate doesn’t even bother to hide his smirk and was probably near bursting from holding that little detail inside. The daiquiri girl was between jobs and seemed vastly uninterested in remedying the situation anytime soon. Nate broke up with her a short time later.
The waitress brings our drinks and Annika takes a tentative sip of her wine. “Do you like it?” I ask her.
“It’s very good.” She puckers her lips a little, because it’s probably a bit drier than she expected.
“I need to use the restroom,” Sherry says. She looks at Annika. “Would you like to come with me?”
“No,” Annika says, grimacing and using the same tone you’d use to turn down an elective root canal.
Sherry looks at her in confusion. “No?”
Annika pauses. Removes the napkin from her lap and smiles. “Actually, yes. I should probably go now, too.”
I keep my expression blank, but inside I’m laughing. Annika’s honest response to what is essentially one of the most common female conventions is priceless, but she says it so sweetly—without a trace of sarcasm—that I may be the only one who realizes she didn’t arbitrarily change her mind. It just took her a few extra seconds to shuffle through her brain for the appropriate social response. No wonder she was so tired after I took her to my company dinner. It must be exhausting, and it makes me feel extra protective of her.