I cackle. “I can never unhear what you just told me. You cannot use Winds of Freedom, buddy.”
He elbows my ribs. “Instead of criticizing, help me.”
“Lost in New Orleans?” I ask.
“Generic,” he tsks.
“Big Little Easy?” I try again.
“Ever.” His eyes widen. “Wow. That is terrible.”
“At least mine doesn’t sound like an ass burp.”
“You’re really poetic. Anyone ever told you that?”
“I think you did, once. And that was after we had sex.”
We both laugh.
After the alcohol has seeped out of my system, I drive him to a boutique hotel in the Tenderloin. I tell him it’s a rough neighborhood and that he should be mindful of that.
“They should be wary of me. I’m a Bostonian.” He puffs his chest in an exaggerated way that makes me laugh.
“Just watch out, tough guy.”
He kisses my cheek before leaving. I watch him go, then wait a few more minutes as I ogle the hotel door, waiting for him to . . . what? Realize he forgot to profess his undying love for me and jog back to my car?
Yes. I’m that much of a mess.
But since Joe isn’t, the door doesn’t open, and he doesn’t come back and tell me we should be together.
On my way back home, I call Pippa and relay everything that happened today. Finally, I don’t have to summon her into my memory. Talking to her regularly again soothes me.
“So he makes a huge romantic gesture but still wants you to know he is fucking other people?” she muses. I can hear her munching on baby carrots, her favorite snack. “Sounds to me like he’s in deep denial. Now, who does that remind me of . . .” She taps her fingernail over a hard surface on the other line. “Oh, right. You.”
“Denial about what?” I bark. I’m about as friendly as a pet rock right now. Pippa is on the receiving end of my residual emotional carnage. That must mean we are back to being BFFs. You only dump your emotional mess on people you are close with.
“Your feelings toward Joe.”
“I’m not in denial. I know damn well I’m in love with the bastard!” I punch the steering wheel, accidentally beeping at the car in front of me. The driver jerks forward automatically before realizing the light is still red. Oops.
Pippa laughs, delighted. “I just wanted you to hear yourself say that. Now all you need is to tell him.”
“I don’t think it’s reciprocated.” I worry my lower lip.
“I don’t think it’s your place to determine,” she shoots back cheerfully.
“Anyway, what does it matter? I don’t have the guts to be with him.”
What would his parents think? What would the world think? The brother and the fiancée, finding comfort in each other’s arms. This is not the truth, of course. But people never want the truth. Only the juiciest, most easily digestible narrative offered to them.
“Ah, living gutless. It worked so well for you before, didn’t it?” Pippa teases. “There’s no way around it, Ever. If you want to be happy—you have to take chances. You have to open yourself up to getting hurt.”
“I’m scared to make a choice.” My voice cracks as I round the car into my neighborhood.
“You know what’s scarier?” she asks. “Not making one at all.”
Joe and I stay true to our promise to focus on work during the weekdays.
He doesn’t leave his hotel room. He writes nonstop. I find an artist to make Mom’s gravestone and start doing research on universities in both California and Massachusetts. I bookmark them online and send them to Dad and Donna.
I spend my evenings with Joe. We go to watch a live band, we eat seafood, and we catch a movie. There’s an underlying weirdness between us, but neither of us points that out. He treats me like I’m his baby sister. I treat him like he is a surly tourist. The week zips by fast. Too fast. A part of me grieves my last night with Joe. Another part of me is relieved. I’m tired of waiting for the clock to hit seven every day. Tired of counting back the hours, and the minutes, and the seconds until I see him. I’m exhausted. Of loving him in secret. Of pretending like I’m okay with what we are. With what we’re not.
And it hits me, on my way to Joe’s hotel. What am I doing? I have no business applying to schools in Massachusetts. If I stay in touch with him, he is going to detonate whatever is left of my heart into millions of microscopic pieces.
It is Joe’s last evening. Tomorrow morning, he boards a plane back to Boston. We’ve both decided we’ll order room service and stay in. When I arrive at his room, the food is already there, covered by silver cloches. Joe looks extra handsome. He’s clean shaven, his hair still damp from the shower.