Page 8 of 2nd Strike
“I saw the news,” he says. “You should’ve called me. What with the serial killer and all.”
Sufficiently chastised, I nod. “It was late.”
He closes the door and ushers me to the small living room where his sparse furnishings provide enough seating for company. His own art, and a sketch I did of the Silver Tail river, adorns his walls. Beyond that is a galley kitchen. Across from it, the lone bedroom door is open and I spot his unmade bed.
I avert my gaze. I can’t think about that and Jerome in the same thought. I may self-combust.
I plop onto his sofa, dropping my messenger bag next to me. “How busy are you today?”
To supplement his artist’s income, Jerome works part-time at a small gallery in D.C. The money isn’t great, but the hours are flexible and allow him to explore his creative endeavors. Including the occasional composite sketch for various law enforcement organizations. Or, in this case, me.
He settles into a hand-me-down wicker chair my sister wouldn’t be caught dead in and wipes fuzz from the top of the coffee table he made out of repurposed wood. Then he peers at me, his smile flashing. “I’m free. Want to entertain me?”
I sure do.Except, a sudden bout of pissiness assails me. Blame it on the fatigue from the last couple weeks because I suddenly feel like nothing in my life is as it should be.
I’m unmarried. No prospects in sight. Don’t even get me started on my chances of being a parent.
I lean in, returning the smile. “Are we ready to go there? Truly?”
Waving me off, he sighs. “You’re no fun.”
This is news to him? After all the talks we’ve shared about my anxiety? My obsession with the sculptures of dead people that adorn my office?
My pulse kicks up and I inhale before I say something stupid. But…screw it. It’s time for me to control my life, not the other way around.
“I know. But I care about you. I might even say I love you. And if we’re going there, we’regoingthere.”
Dang, I really needed that pot brownie last night. If I’d had it, I wouldn’t have all this emotional garbage churning me up.
His jaw drops. “You…”
Might as well dive in.“Don’t freak. It’s not…” What? I shake my head.Idon’t even know what it is. “It’s not let’s-get-hitched love. It’s more-than-a-friend love though.”
His shoulders slump, but I’m not sure why. Is it relief? Horror?
Disappointment.
After three years of friendship, I may not know him as well as I think.
Good one, Meg.
This would be why we’ve been circling each other. This unknown place. This awkwardness.
“I didn’t mean—”
He holds his hand up. “It’s…okay. I actually think I understand.”
“Good. Then you can explain it to me.”
The smile appears again and my pulse settles. This is why he means so much to me. He knows what I need, when I need it.
“We’re stuck, Meg.”
Oh, thank God. All this time we’ve never discussed it. We’ve sat in this apartment, occasionally getting stoned and laughing ourselves silly but never once have we slipped about our feelings.
We’re either both idiots or two people who have amazing respect for a relationship we cherish. “Weare. Part of me wants to do something about it.”
“And the other doesn’t. I know. So, what? We keep doing this?”
