It's Complicated (53 page)

He laughed. It hurt. He winced. “Good advice.”

“Before I can be with you, then, I need to unfuckup myself. Meeting your mother today is one example. Alex, I was so scared that day you told me you wanted me to meet her,” she explained.

“Scared? Of my
mom
? Why?”

“You’d have to meet my mother to understand. You know that day you called me and we…well, we had that moment on the baseball field?”

The wide grin made his face hurt like a motherfucker, but the pain was worth it. “Yes.”

“You interrupted a call from my mom. She was asking for money. Mostly for her drug and alcohol habit. She claimed it was for repairing the gutters on our house, but…she’s an addict and she, well, let’s just say our moms wouldn’t exactly co-exist well.”

“C’mon, Josie—”

She snorted. “Maybe as patient and psychologist. But that’s it.”

Showing him this very exposed, very fragile part of herself was a gift, he knew. Josie wouldn’t do this for anyone. It made his stomach tighten and his arms ache to hold her. What he’d known was real and true and deep and broad was right before him, pouring her heart out in the only way she knew how.

And it had to be enough. He couldn’t push or prod or pull.

“If I’m normal, the world is in trouble,” he said quietly.

“You’re more normal than me,” was all she said, taking one more step closer.

Reach for her
, his mind screamed.

So he did.

She accepted his embrace. Sinking his face into her hair, breathing in her goodness, he said again, “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted you. I just had this stupid case at work and I turned into a jackass.”

“Asshat.”

“That too. And I should have told you.”

“Yes, you should,” she said into his shoulder. “If I’m going to show you my belly, you have to show me yours.”

Pulling back, she lifted up her shirt. “See? My soft underbelly.”

He pulled his shirt up too. “There. We’re even.”

“Now what?” they said in unison. Alex bent down to press his forehead against hers, forgetting about the cut.

“Ow.” He pulled back.

Her fingers against his cheek searched the topography of his jaw. “Give me time.” On tiptoes, she kissed him lightly on the lips. It felt like a whispered promise.

“Time for what?”

“Time to unfuckup myself.” And with that, she walked to his front door and slipped out like a shadow in a dream, made from nothing quite real, but no less significant.

Chapter Fourteen

It was the green mug that caught her eye. Normally, Josie didn’t go to Central Square for much, preferring to stick closer to Inman, but her days were a bit unmoored until the office space Laura had rented was remodeled and they could get the business up and running in earnest. In the meantime, she had long stretches of time, decent savings, and she’d get her first paycheck in a week or so. Hours on the phone each day and occasional trips to Mike’s cabin filled her days.

Which was good, because otherwise she’d be flinging herself on Alex’s lap and having sex with him under the chess tables in front of Au Bon Pain in Harvard Square.

Not that he knew she’d do that.

Here she found herself, walking to a lovely coffee shop that sold lattes she enjoyed, and made macchiato the exact way Alex liked them—

Stop that!
she told herself.
Quit relating every. Single. Thing in your life to Alex
.

The green mug was a welcome diversion. A panhandler held it, and it looked suspiciously familiar. Huh. How weird.

As much as she wanted coffee, the local juice bar caught her eye. Her stomach growled; she’d forgotten breakfast. How about a fresh juice? On impulse, she walked in, noting with amusement that the greenery in the vegetarian café matched the lush palm tree pattern painted on her fingernails. After ordering something yummy made from carrots, ginger, apples, and other stuff, she sat down near a bookcase covered with books patrons could read while they enjoyed their food.

She did a double take.

A string of romances—the same books, including
The Highlander’s Heine
—filled one shelf.

Wait a minute.

Wild hands flailed through the window, followed by a big pouf of yellow hair. “Hey, Josie!” Darla screamed. Quickly, Josie jumped up and ran outside, hauling her half-drunk juice with her.

“What are you doing? Following me?” Josie asked, drinking more.

“God, no. You’re way too boring. I went to that clothing store where you buy clothes by the pound. Did you know they made stilettos in a men’s size sixteen?”

“It’s Cambridge, Darla. Of course they do.”

“I got them!” She pulled out a pair of gold high heels that looked like something Gene Hackman wore in
The Birdcage
.

“Why? Is Trevor turning out to have a secret you need to share?”

“No! And even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.”

“Fair enough. So why buy the sandals?” A slurping sound from the bottom of her drink told her it was done.

She crinkled her nose and gave Josie a long, slow eye roll. “Because they were there, and I think they cost a couple dollars.”

“Just because something’s there doesn’t mean you need it.”

“Gold. Stilettos. Men. Can. Wear,” Darla said slowly. “Besides, they cost less than that overpriced grass water you’re drinking.”

“Speaking of which, Darla, do you know why the exact same set of romance novels your mom won is sitting in there?” She yanked her thumb toward the juice cafe.

Darla brightened. “I asked them if they wanted them. Figured I’d spread the wealth!”

“And will you spread the wealth with those shoes?”

“Like what? Give them to a shoeless man? Of course.”

“Make sure you find a matching gold belt. Only fair.”

“Have you heard from Alex?”

“Way to deflect,” Josie muttered. “As a matter of fact, yes. We’ve been texting.”

“Texting? That’s it?”

“We’re taking it slow.”

“Are you sexting?”

“No. Ewww.”

“Nothing’s
ewwww
about sexting, you prude,” Darla argued. They began to walk slowly toward the coffee shop.

Josie snorted. “I am
so
not a prude.”

“When will you two actually decide to get over yourselves and get together?”

“When I figure out how to get over myself.”

The coffee shop was a long, narrow store, and the counter always was three people deep, waiting to order or hanging out to get their drink. On a whim, Josie ordered a macchiato while Darla just got a regular coffee.

“Macchiato?”

“I’m trying something new.”

“I’ll bet that’s Alex’s drink.”

Josie turned away and said nothing. A guy selling a newspaper that donated money to the homeless wore a red t-shirt that was a little too familiar. The logo was—

“Darla, are you handing out t-shirts, too?” She pointed.

Darla’s eyes lit up as she took her coffee from the barista. “That’s Juan! He sells that
Spare Change
newspaper all the time. I gave him a bunch of Mama’s winnings.”

“I’m glad they’re being put to good use,” Josie said, laughing softly.

Juan gave Darla a quick wave as they left. Headed home, Josie took a sip of the macchiato and screwed up her face. Too dark for her. It needed milk. The flavor was pleasant and she could appreciate the artistry of good coffee, but for her a latte meant comfort. Not just a shot of tasty caffeine. Chucking this macchiato back was a simple affair, and maybe that was the secret: a doctor on long shifts could appreciate the quality, but get it pumping through his bloodstream ASAP.

“When’s the new office ready?” Darla asked.

“Sometime next week. We need to meet up with Laura in the next few days to go over everything. I can’t believe you haven’t met her and Mike and Dylan yet!”

“A sick baby makes the world stop,” Darla said sympathetically. Jillian had come down with a light fever and a stuffy nose and Laura’s world ground to a halt. Nothing serious, Laura assured her, but it meant the three new parents were up day and night, with no time for anything but Jillian.

Meanwhile, the plans for the new business cranked on. A boutique dating service that would spread through word of mouth and very careful targeted advertising, using customized software to help people find not “The One,” but “The Two.”

Darla and Laura loved it.

“I hope Jillian’s feeling better today,” was all Josie could think to say as they paused at a stop light. This part of Cambridge had a patchwork quilt of sidewalks made of bricks, some asphalted, and some concrete. Architecture was mixed, too, from boring brick buildings to 1800s gabled homes and everything in between. As they got closer to Inman Square, the streets got a little less clean, the weeds a little more overgrown on the patches of grass that poked up between pavement, and the stores were decidedly less chic.

“Me too,” Darla added. “By the way, you need to find yourself two guys real quick.”

Halting, Josie gawked at her openly. “I need to what?”

“How can you work for a threesome dating service and have any credibility if you’ve never had a threesome, Josie?”

“How do you know I never—” Clamping her mouth shut, Josie bit off the words.

“I see,” Darla said quietly. They walked for three blocks in complete silence. Great. Just great. Now Darla thought she needed a threesome to run the business. And Darla now knew about Josie’s sex life. Could the day get any worse?

As they rounded the corner to their road, the distinct
beep-beep-beep
of a rather large truck backing up filled the air. Walking to their building, Josie saw it backing up right in front of the house.

Darla looked at her, brow furrowed. “You order something big?”

“No. Maybe another tenant?” The truck driver went around to the back of the truck, where they couldn’t see him. By the time they reached the building, he was unloading a huge, shrink-wrapped pallet of what looked like a hundred bags of something onto the street, using a hand-cart with a hydraulic lift.

“Hey! You Darla Jennings?” he called out.

Darla froze, turning slowly, a smile on her face. “That’s me!”

“Here. It’s for you. Sign.”

“What is it?” Josie asked, peering intently at the enormous pallet. It was half the size of her car, and looked like some sort of yard supply, like bags of mulch or potting soil.

“Cat litter,” Mr. Friendly said, nodding for Darla to sign.

“Cat litter?” Josie gasped. “That much?”

Darla handed back the clipboard and he gave her an envelope. “Okay, then. Bye,” he said, leaving the pallet on the lawn.

“Wait! No!” Josie shrieked, panicking. “You can’t just leave that there!”

“Truck delivery only, lady. You want it in your house, it’s another $150.”

“$150!” Now it was Darla’s turn to shriek. “To leave this thing on our porch?”

He put the handcart back in the truck, jumped out, closed up, and walked to the driver’s seat. “Policy.”

“POLICY?” Josie screamed. “You’re leaving me a half-ton of cat litter in my front yard and it’s POLICY?”

The roar of the engine as he took off was the only answer she got.

A tearing sound as Darla opened the envelope caught Josie’s attention. Darla pulled out a letter, read for a few seconds, and then pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ah, shit.”

“Oh God no.”

“Yep. Mama won us a lifetime supply of kitty litter.”

“
Whose
lifetime? Edward Cullen’s?”

“Nine lifetimes, from the looks of that pile,” Darla answered, shaking her head. The shrink-wrapped monstrosity sat, crooked, on the scraggly lawn. Most of her neighbors were at work right now, but soon they’d come home, and she did not want to deal with complaints to the landlord or any of the other myriad problems that came with enough kitty litter to fill the city swimming pool across the street.

Or, at least, that was what it felt like.

“We need to move this,” Josie said, starting to pace. The coffee hit her, making her a bit manic. “Let’s cut open the plastic and start moving the bags.”

“Josie, there is no way we can get this done without help. I can handle some of those bags, but not all. And you have the muscle mass of a decaying corpse.”

“Do not!”

“You’re right.” Darla pinched her biceps. “Even less. Damn, I’ll bet my wrist is fatter than your thighbone, girl!”

“Now is not the time to compare,” Josie said menacingly.

Darla pulled out her phone and punched some numbers, then held one finger up to Josie. “Hang on.”

Josie stomped into the apartment, most certainly not willing to hang on. The view outside from the window didn’t make the pallet seem any more appealing. The taste of her macchiato burned in her mouth, reminding her too much of Alex.

Alex.

Light-hearted texting and quick little comments to each other throughout the week had been cute, but Josie didn’t want “cute.” She despised “cute.” What she wanted was more, but didn’t know how to go for it. Something was stuck between her and Alex, and figuring out how to unstick it was driving her mad.

A giant pile of kitty litter didn’t help. Flopping down on the floor, she spotted Crackhead, who was crouched under a small end table next to the couch. The cat’s eyes gleamed in the dark, and it made a mild purring noise.

“Sure, you’re happy,” she said to the cat. “You have enough kitty litter to piss in for the next three centuries.”

“Who are you talking to?” Darla asked, stepping in and closing the front door.

“Crackhead.”

“And did he tell you you’re being stupid about Alex, too?”

Josie stood and huffed off without saying a word. Storming into her bedroom, she ripped off her overly warm shirt, threw on a tank top, and stopped with her arms up as her eyes noticed something hidden under a stack of papers on a small table in her bedroom.

The book.

That fucking book.

Click
. Like a telescope that shifts to focus, the movement so acute it leaves you a bit confused, Josie’s brain rotated into a position of sudden, extreme clarity.