“I’m not, okay?”
“There’s something else I have to wonder about you, Amelia.”
“Let’s hear it,” I said.
“Your roommate set all this up and you still showed up.”
“Didn’t we do this already?” I asked. “Oh, yeah, we did. And you walked out.”
Josh grinned the kind of grin that destroyed a different part of my innocence years ago. He leaned across the table again.
“This time is different, love… I’m not leaving until I’m full.”
Chapter 11
Lost and Locked
NOW
(Josh)
You lost the fucking letter. Or better yet, did you do something with the letter? The one thing you were supposed to do, you couldn’t do it sober. So you did it while you were hammered drunk, wandering around town, ending up at your best friend’s house because that’s where you felt comfortable.
There were texts in my phone that I had sent to Michelle.
She had been smart enough to ignore them, knowing there was a side of me that enjoyed her company and another side that would have said some emotional stuff and hurt both of us.
The panic I felt retracing my steps to the gallery had taken a back seat the second I saw Amelia. What I remembered about her she probably didn’t even realize. Hell, and the things she did to save my ass without doing a thing…
“That was pretty good,” she said as she crumpled up her napkin and threw it onto the plate.
“Whoa,” I said. “There’s food on there.”
“I’m full.”
“You’re not going to offer it to me?”
“You want to eat my leftovers?” she asked.
All I had to do was give her that sly grin to make her cheeks turn red with innuendo.
She sighed and plucked the napkin off the plate and slid it my way.
I tried hard not to do the stupid teenage thing of telling myself that by eating food her fork touched meant it was like my lips touching her lips. If I wanted a kiss from Amelia, I’d kiss her. Simple as that.
“So how did your night go, Josh?” she asked.
“Are you asking as a friend or a reporter?”
“I’m not a reporter. Or a writer. Or anything.”
“You’re a waitress. That’s something.”
“Promising, huh?”
“Everything and everyone has a purpose,” I said.
“Are you saying that as a friend or an artist?”
I jabbed the fork into the messy plate of eggs, hash browns, sausage, and cheese and took a big scoop.
“That’s a good one,” I said.
“I try,” Amelia said. “So how did you end up doing this?”
“Getting your food?” I asked.
“Josh…”
“Love…”
She swallowed hard. “You knew what I meant.”
“The artist thing?” I asked. “I fell into it. Through a friend. Had someone spot a few things I had done, and it exploded from there.”
“That’s pretty amazing though, right?”
“It has its moments.”
“Not last night.”
I pointed the fork at her. “See, there you go again. Trying to build that story of yours. I’d like to read it.”
“The story about you?”
“Any of your stories,” I said. “You give me a talking animal story and I’ll answer more of your questions.”
Amelia laughed and pushed away from the table. “What if I don’t have any of the talking animal stories anymore?”
“First off, there’s no way you threw those out,” I said. “And second, if you’re going to lie and say you did, then write a new one.”
“Maybe I’ll write about a monster,” she said. “Who gets angry too much and too fast. Who runs when someone asks a serious question. Who has bad habits. Who eats other people’s food.”
“Oh, so I’m the monster,” I said. “How creative.” I placed my fork down and shoved the plate aside. “Does this story tell the part when the monster saved the pretty young girl… more than once? Or the part when the pretty young girl thought she was in some fairy tale and wanted to kiss the monster, but he did the right thing by stopping her?”
Now her cheeks burned even hotter.
“I’m the writer,” she said. “So, I could write how the monster made her feel pretty and then ripped her heart out.”
“Only for safe keeping, love,” I whispered. “Trust me.”
“It’s still my story to tell,” Amelia said with a flirty undertone that threatened to waste the rest of my day. Which I was fine with.
“So then tell it,” I said.
“Nobody wants that story, Josh. They want yours.”
“Some blog does, love. Remember?”
“It would help me if you answered some questions though.”
“I thought you didn’t care.”
“Depends on what this could mean.”
“So now you’re suddenly invested in this story.”
“You know what happened with us,” she said. “Or didn’t happen. And it’s been such a long time. I’m curious.”
“Now you’re talking about two different stories,” I said. “That’s a lot of talking and writing.”
“What’s your price then?” she asked.
“Price?”
“Food? Whiskey? What?”
I simply smiled.
That was my answer.
And Amelia knew exactly what it meant.
Finish what we had started all those years ago.
I was late for an appointment and I knew it.
My phone buzzed over and over, and I kept ignoring it as I enjoyed a cigarette and small talk with Amelia.
“Someone wants your attention,” Amelia said.
“I’m supposed to be somewhere,” I said. “Not worried about it.”
I was worried about it though. Worried about the appointment. The fucking letter. What I had done the night before. And masking it all with Amelia’s company was only good for so long.
We walked our way back to the gallery and I walked her to her car.
“Story for a story?” she asked me as she opened the driver’s door.
“Deal,” I said. “And it’d better be a good one.”
“Same for you,” she said.
“Believe me, love, I could tell you things that would keep that little blog of yours alive and well for a long time.”
“It’s not my blog,” she said. “I kind of want nothing to do with it.”
“You keep changing your story about what you want.”
“Maybe I just want to talk to you, Josh. You sort of… you were a big part of some stuff for me.”
“I’m not sure if that’s good or bad,” I said.
“Neither am I,” she said with a smile that felt like an electric prod to my heart.
“Let me ask you something,” I said. “What was your favorite piece from the showing?”