There’s a giant lump in her throat but the release of tears won’t come. Ari forces a couple deep breaths, rises to her feet, and opens the bathroom door.
The restaurant is quiet now, except for a blast of water from the kitchen sink. Josh’s chef’s coat undone, his hands busy cleaning knives. Ari’s heart clenches. Actually, no—more like the cumulative effect of missing him for months punches her in the sternum. He looks up when he hears her footsteps and then looks down again quickly.
He shuts the water off. The boom box on the counter plays “What a Fool Believes.”
“They went down the block for drinks,” he says after a beat that seems to last minutes.
“You didn’t want to?”
“Doc Holliday’s smells like a swamp.”
“See, I find that smell comforting,” she says.
He doesn’t smile. It feels like another jab to the chest. “Someone had to finish cleaning up.”
“Can I help?” she ventures.
Josh doesn’t respond. But it’s not a “no,” so she steps into the kitchen.
“I realize this isn’t the right time but…maybe—I dunno, could we talk? There’s so much, I just…” She pauses for a breath. “If you wanted to meet for coffee or something.”
He raises his head, but doesn’t look at her. “Coffee.”
“I think it’s great that you’re cooking again and, uh, dating—”
“You think it’s great that I’m dating.”
No, no, no. Abort. It’s already a fucking disaster. But her lips keep moving. “All I want is to talk to you again. Can’t we just talk?” She shuts her mouth before it can get worse.
“That’s all you ever want from me.” He dries the knife and puts it down on top of a folded towel. “The two of us are not friends, Ari. We were friends and at some point we were something else and only one of us was able to acknowledge it.”
“It’s not like I’m doing great right now, you know?” Her pulse races like she just finished a 10K. “I’m—I’m feeling…really lonely.”
Finally, he looks her in the eye. “I’m sorry it was that fucking difficult for you to admit you had any feelings whatsoever for me that you had to move to another state to deal with it.”
A horn honks somewhere on Avenue A. The upbeat tone of the Doobie Brothers song hangs incongruously in the air between them.
“I miss—” Shit. Her voice is already wobbling. It’s like when you scratch your hand on something and it doesn’t hurt until you look down and notice you’re bleeding. “I miss you. And I get that you don’t want to, like, talk, but I need you to know that…you kind of m-meant the world to me.” She manages to get it all out before stifling something that feels like a potential sob.
He puts his hand down on the metal prep table and it makes a booming sound. “I don’t want to hear about how you used to feel.” His voice sounds strained and choked. “Because you’ve been two hundred miles away and I’m still here and I’ve been here this whole time, waiting for you to just—”
“Josh—”
“I fucked things up, too. I know that. You told me you weren’t ready for a relationship and I didn’t want to hear it, so I didn’t listen. I tried to center my world around you instead of actually rebuilding my life.”
Except why is he finally “rebuilding” with Radhya? Why is that fair? How is it possible that these two people who spent the last six years resenting each other can find common ground in cutting Ari out of the picture? Sometimes the more interesting person to the left is your best friend.
There’s a police siren whining in the background; he waits for it to recede into the distance before continuing. “It’s taken eight fucking months and two different therapists, but I get it now,” he says. “To me, that night felt like the beginning of something. You were so convinced it had to be the end. And that’s not something I can control through force of will.”
The lump in her throat feels like it’s pressing on her windpipe. Don’t cry. Say something.
“You’re where you’re supposed to be right now,” he continues. “And I guess I’m where…I am.” The tears start to make her vision blurry. Josh turns into a watery blob, but his voice is crystal clear. “I think”—he swallows—“I think there’s a part of me that still loves you.” There’s a pause long enough to make her hope that the next word is and. “But I’m not going to slip back into some inane conversation with you like we’re buddies. We’re not going to have any late-night phone calls anymore. I’m not your coffee date. I’m not your shoulder to cry on.” He inhales sharply. “I deserve more than that. Even if it’s not with you.”