“I’ll go with you to the wedding.”
“Be quiet, Lucinda.” So he can hear me.
“I’ll be your designated driver. You can get drunk. You can get so drunk and you’ll have the best time.
I’ll be your chauffeur.”
He picks up his calculator and begins to tap. I persevere.
“I’ll drive you home and put you to bed, like you did for me. You can vomit into Tupperware and I’ll rinse it. Then we’ll be even.”
He rests his fingertips on his keyboard and closes his eyes. He seems to be reciting a string of obscenities in his mind. “You don’t even know where the wedding is.”
“Unless it’s in North Korea, I’ll go. When is it?”
“This Saturday.”
“I’m free. It’s settled. Give me your address and I’ll pick you up and everything. Name the time.”
“Pretty presumptuous of you to assume I won’t have a date.”
I nearly open my mouth to retort that I know for a fact I’m his plus-one. Just in time, my cell phone rings. Danny. I swivel my chair a full one hundred eighty degrees. Hasn’t he ever heard of texting?
“Hi, Lucy. Feeling any better? Are we still on for dinner?”
I drop my voice to a whisper. “I’m not sure. I have to go pick up my car and I’ve been feeling pretty shitty.”
“I’ve heard so much about this car of yours.”
“I think it’s silver . . . that’s as much as I can remember of it.”
“I’ve booked a table for seven tonight. Bonito Brothers. You said you like it?”
There’s not much choice left then. It’s hard to get a reservation there. I try not to sigh.
“Bonito Brothers is good. Thanks. I won’t have a huge appetite but I’ll do my best. I’ll meet you there.”
“See you tonight.”
I hang up and sit facing the wall for a bit.
“Danny Fletcher has a clichéd evening in store for you. Italian restaurant, checkered tablecloth.
Probably a candle. He’ll push the last meatball to you with his nose. Second date, right?”
“Let’s change the subject.” I pretend to start typing. My screen fills with error messages.
“Most guys would try for a kiss on the second date.”
That stops me in my tracks, and the look in my eye is probably crazy. The idea of Joshua making an effort on a second date is inconceivable. Joshua on a date, period.
I imagine Josh, seated across from a beautiful woman, laughing and smiling. The same smile he once gave me. His eyes lit up, anticipating a good-night kiss. I’ve got a dark ball of pressure burning in my chest. I try to clear my throat but it doesn’t work.
I’m not the only one looking a little crazy. “Just say it. You look like you’re about to explode.”
“Do yourself a favor and stay home tonight. You look terrible.”
“Thank you, Doctor Josh. Why does Fat Little Dick call you that, anyway?”
“Because my parents and brother are doctors. It’s his way of reminding me I’ve failed to reach my potential.” His tone indicates I am the town simpleton, and he gets to his feet. I trail after him down the hall toward the copy room. He doesn’t slow so I grab him by the arm.
“Wait a minute. I’m trying to fix this. You’re right, you know. I did come in here today hoping these last days together might be different.”
He opens his mouth, but I steamroll ahead. He’s letting me hold him against the wall, but we both know he could pick me up like a chess piece if he wanted to.
Some heeled shoes are clopping toward us sedately as a Clydesdale and my frustration mounts. I need to clear this up, now, or I am going to have an aneurism .
The cleaner’s closet will have to do. It’s thankfully unlocked, and I walk in and stand among the chemicals and vacuum cleaners.
“Get in here.”
He obeys reluctantly and I pull the door shut and lean on it. We remain silent as the heels round the corner and continue past.
“This is cozy.” Josh kicks his toe against a bulk quantity of toilet paper. “Well? What?”
“I’ve screwed up. I know I have.”