“You feel better?”
“Much.” Even though this was a lie, she couldn’t tell her friend that she wasn’t exactly accurate. Before sweating out her complex feelings about Jack, she’d been like a puzzle with a few pieces askew. Right now, she felt like the pieces had been clicked into place but the other ones were missing.
Thankfully, Sasha didn’t pick up on the intricacies of her inner workings right then. “Mimosas?”
“Like a thousand of them should do the trick.”
* * *
—
JACK PLAYED BASKETBALL WITH Chris, Joey, and Father Patrick Dooley—otherwise known as Chris’s much less idiotic older brother—every Saturday morning on the courts outside of the church they’d all attended as children. Unlike when they were pip-squeaks, Jack, Chris, and Joey didn’t return to the church on Sunday morning unless it was Easter or Christmas. Pat was kind of required to be there for every Mass—given that he was the parish priest and all.
Patrick was sort of the conscience of the group, and Chris’s Irish twin at thirteen months his senior. Although he’d participated in his share of the tomfoolery they’d gotten themselves up to in their adolescence—petty acts of vandalism and minor shoplifting—he was always the first to fess up and take the punishment. Although he’d never mentioned wanting to become a priest while they were suffering through catechism classes, the role sort of fit his slightly older friend.
Still, at times, Jack felt his buddy’s conflict about his calling as though it were a palpable thing. Back in college, Patrick had been a hard-partying ladies’ man. With his black-Irish good looks and one dimpled cheek, Patrick hadn’t had to work that hard to blow up skirts all over the Loyola Chicago campus. The few times Jack had visited his buddy in the dorms, it had been clear to him that Patrick had a reputation as a big man on campus—in more ways than one.
The shock of his mother’s death had changed Patrick, though. Where Chris had grieved and clung to Bridget, Patrick had drawn into himself and become much more serious. His once-easy smiles had become hard-won and rare. Jack had worried about his older friend. Doubly so with his sudden calling to the priesthood.
Patrick threw the ball at Jack’s chest with more force than necessary and said, “Check.”
Jack caught the ball and started dribbling up the court, Patrick on his tail. “Kind of harsh, Father.”
Arms in the air, trying to block Jack’s options for passing to Joey, Patrick replied, “My idiot brother tells me you met a girl. Again.”
Because of his role as conscience and confessor, Patrick knew all about the fact that he’d sworn off dating for a while. Jack had come to the conclusion after sharing some very fine scotch he’d gotten while doing a “How to Drink Scotch and Not Look Like a Pretentious Idiot” story. Hell, Patrick might have suggested his hiatus.
Jack shot a glare at Chris and used the opportunity to fake out Patrick and dish a no-look pass to Joey. For once, Joey didn’t have a thumb up his ass and got the layup.
Joey and Chris went to midcourt, and Jack looked back at his friend the priest. “It’s for a story.”
“Chris told me that part, too.” Patrick’s forehead crinkled in pastoral concern. “It seems kind of mean.”
Patrick’s previous way with women was one of the many reasons Jack had always looked up to him. Even though he’d dated up a storm through sophomore year, he’d never left a woman angry with him. He was still friends with most of his exes—perhaps because he’d left them behind for God rather than another girl.
That was why Jack hadn’t been about to tell him about this assignment. Or Hannah and his very inconvenient feelings for her. This whole thing had every indication that it would blow up in his face. And leave Hannah hurt and even more bitter about men.
Jack sighed, frustration building. He wasn’t sure if it was with himself or with his anthropomorphic conscience beating up on him about as hard as he’d been beating up on himself. After Hannah had left the night before, he’d planned to spend some quality time in the shower with his right hand. But his enthusiasm for the endeavor had deflated as soon as Hannah’s disappointment and confusion had registered in his brain.
He wasn’t sure he was cut out for this whole losing-a-girl-on-purpose thing. Even though he’d been decided and determined to follow through the night before, doubts dragged on him. Now, looking at Patrick and his rolled-up forehead, he was thinking that it was simply his Catholic guilt getting the best of him.
“I have to do it, Patrick.” He looked over at Chris and Joey, who were dodging their morning workout by standing around and talking shit—the usual—to make sure they weren’t paying attention to this conversation. They were the guys to go to when he wanted to crush a few beers, not the kind he wanted to have a heart-to-heart with. “It’s the only way I’m going to get to cover politics for the magazine.”
Patrick knew how much Jack wanted to get off the how-to beat, how much he needed to carve out his own place in the world. That was what made this so hard. By going through with the story, he felt as though he was finally making the right choice with respect to girl versus career.
And his friend must have seen the conflict on his face because he smiled and said, “Let’s get back to this game. I need to win so you have to buy the beer.”
CHAPTER TEN
JACK OPENED HIS NOTES app and titled a new document: “How to Lose Hannah.” And then he looked at Chris and waited for him to tell him how to mess up a relationship. Being a perfectly decent but boring guy was Jack’s only move when it came to losing girlfriends, and that was really more of a long game. He needed to get out of this thing with Hannah fast if he hoped to file his article on time.
“You have to send her a dick pic.” Chris was probably right, but that was way further down the line. Patrick had left a little while ago—church emergency—so they were free to brainstorm about this shit. “Or, if she tells you that she feels fat or bloated, write out an exercise and diet plan for her.”
Jack looked at his friend, feeling nothing but abject disgust. “Have you actually done that? To a real, live woman who didn’t brain you afterward?” Still, he wrote it down because it was properly boneheaded.
Chris took a deep interest in his beer glass. “Maybe.”
“Did you do it to Bridget?” Jack seriously thought about punching Chris once a week over dumping Bridget, but if he’d been sending his sweet baby sister dick pics or calling her fat, he could not be accountable for his actions.
“No. Bridget would’ve taken my balls and worn them as earrings had I called her fat.”
“Did you send her a picture of your Johnson?”