Page 57 of Still Me
I spun round in the corridor. There stood Joshua Ryan in a shirt and jeans, his eyebrows raised.
“What? Oh. Hi!” My hand went instinctively to my hair. “No—no, I’m just here with some friends.”
“I’m kidding you. How are you, Louisa Clark? Long way from Central Park.” He stooped to kiss my cheek. He smelled delicious, of limes and something soft and musky. “Wow. That was almost poetic.”
“Just working my way through all the bars in Manhattan. You know how it is.”
“Oh, yeah. The ‘try something new’ thing. You look cute. I like the whole”—he gestured toward my shift dress and short-sleeved cardigan—“preppy vibe.”
“I had to go to a country club today.”
“It’s a good look on you. Want to grab a beer?”
“I—I can’t really leave my friends.” He looked momentarily disappointed. “But, hey,” I added, “come and join us!”
“Great! Let me just tell the people I’m with. I’m tagging along on a date—they’ll be glad to shake me. Where are you?”
I fought my way back to Nathan, my face skin suddenly flushed and a faint buzzing in my ears. It didn’t matter how wrong his accent, how different his eyebrows, the slant at the edge of his eyes that went the wrong way, it was impossible to look at Josh and not see Will there. I wondered if it would ever stop jolting me. I wondered at my unconscious internal use of the word “ever.”
“I bumped into a friend!” I said, just as Josh appeared.
“A friend,” said Nathan.
“Nathan, Dean, Arun, this is Josh Ryan.”
“You forgot ‘the Third.’” He grinned at me, like we’d exchanged a private joke. “Hey.” Josh held out a hand, leaned forward, and shook Nathan’s. I saw Nathan’s eyes travel over him and flicker toward me. I raised a bright, neutral smile, as if I had loads of good-looking male friends dotted all over Manhattan who might just want to come and join us in bars.
“Can I buy anyone a beer?” said Josh. “They do great food here too if anyone’s interested.”
“A ‘friend’?” murmured Nathan, as Josh stepped up to the bar.
“Yes. A friend. I met him at the Yellow Ball. With Agnes.”
“He looks like—”
“I know.”
Nathan considered this. He looked at me, then at Josh. “That whole ‘saying yes’ thing of yours. You haven’t...”
“I love Sam, Nathan.”
“Sure you do, mate. I’m just saying.”
I felt Nathan’s scrutiny during the rest of the evening. Josh and I somehow ended up on the edge of the table away from everyone else, where he talked about his job and the insane mixture of opiates and antidepressants his work colleagues shoveled into themselves every day just to cope with the demands of the office, and how hard he was trying not to offend his easily offended boss, and how he kept failing, and the apartment he never had time to decorate and what had happened when his clean-freak mother visited from Boston. I nodded and smiled and listened and tried to make sure that when I found myself watching hisface it was in an appropriate, interested way rather than a slightly obsessive, wistful oh-but-you’re-so-like-him way.
“And how about you, Louisa Clark? You’ve said almost nothing about yourself all evening. How’s the holiday going? When do you have to head back?”
The job. I realized with a lurch that the last time we had met I had lied about who I was. And also that I was too drunk to maintain any kind of lie, or to feel as ashamed as I probably should about confessing. “Josh, I have to tell you something.”
He leaned forward. “Ah. You’re married.”
“Nope.”
“Well, that’s something. You have an incurable disease? Weeks left to live?”
I shook my head.
“You’re bored? You’re bored. You’d really rather talk to someone else now? I get it. I’ve barely drawn breath.”
