Professor Feelgood (Page 41)

I stop writing mid-word. It’s too early for this conversation. And several years too late.

“We’re here to work, Jake, not reminisce. Besides, I’d rather live in the present than revisit the past.” I push my hair away from my face and turn to him. “So, tell me more about this woman of yours. How did you two meet? What does she look like? Was it love at first sight? Or did she need to overcome a natural aversion to your personality?”

Jake leans forward, and even though his expression is neutral, I can feel anger simmering in him. He may have gotten better at hiding it, but it’s still there.

“Asha,” he says, the tension in his jaw in contrast to the quietness of his voice. “One day soon, we’re going to have to talk about our shit. You know it as well as I do. I’ll give you a pass for today, but at some point, we’re going to clear the air.”

I act as clueless as possible. “About what?”

Angry flecks light in his eyes, and I know I’m pushing him, but I can’t seem to stop.

“Goddammit, stop acting like you have chronic amnesia about our entire friendship. You can’t be that self-deluded.”

“Jake, if you want to clear the air by apologizing for all the crap you pulled in school, fine. Knock yourself out.”

His stare intensifies, and the way his expression hardens makes me feel like he sees every version of myself I’ve morphed through since I was three. “We both know that’s my line, not yours.”

The words hang in the air like a gust of stale crypt air. So many skeletons on both sides in our past. And he’s trying to bring them back to life. Try the door. Rattle it a bit to see how strong the lock is.

“How many times have you told yourself our friendship fell apart because of me?” he asks, his patience as thin as onion skin.

“Jake …”

“No, really, I want to know. Because if you repeat a lie often enough, it becomes truth. How many times, Ash?”

A cold hand squeezes my heart, making my pulse run fast. “We did fall apart because of you.”

“So, you were blameless?”

My voice rises with my blood-pressure. “You turned into an asshole.”

“And you had nothing to do with that?”

I lean away from him, just like I did back then.

He notices and shakes his head. “You once told me that in the story of our lives, we’re our own flawed narrator. You think I’m the bad guy, and I think you are. Our memories are subjective, and we rarely remember ourselves as the villain, even when we were.”

I push back into the arm of the couch, as far away from him as I can get. “Don’t you dare throw this back onto me. You were the villain. If you’d embraced the role any more, you would have started wearing a black ten-gallon hat to school instead of a beanie.”

My voice is shrill in the empty space, and my heart is pounding so fast, it feels like a roar in my ears.

I can’t do this, a small voice whispers inside me. Stop it. Stop talking. Just stop.

I don’t know what he sees in my expression, but after a few more seconds of searching my face, he drops the box onto the coffee table and goes over to the bed.

“Okay, princess.” He grabs some clothes from the baskets on the floor. “If it helps you sleep at night to remember our past that way, go ahead. Stay safe in your delusion.” He walks over to the bathroom and stops when he reaches the door. “But if you ever want to talk about the way things really were, give me a call.”

Then, he disappears into the bathroom and slams the door.

I’m still breathing heavy when I hear the water start.

THIRTEEN

____________________

Write On

WHEN JAKE EMERGES FROM the bathroom fifteen minutes later, he’s fully dressed. The steam that wafts out the door might smell delicious, but it’s clear he’s still tense. That makes two of us.

I make myself look busy and unaffected, but the longer I spend around him, the harder it gets.

“Your phone rang while you were in the shower,” I say, not looking at him. “Several times. Someone’s eager to see you. When you didn’t answer, they sent a text.”

He walks over to the upended apple crate he’s using as a nightstand and picks up his phone. I watch without being obvious. After he checks the screen, he taps something into it and holds it up to his ear.

He glances at me. “Is checking my phone part of your duties? Do I need to start paying a secretarial fee?”

I focus on my computer screen, adjusting the rough timeline for our writing sessions. “Nope. I didn’t touch your phone. The insistent beeping gave it away.”

“Hi, it’s Jacob Stone,” he says quietly into the phone as he walks to the opposite side of the apartment. He keeps his voice low, but unfortunately for him, the lack of walls means this place has amazing acoustics. Even from a dozen yards away, I can hear him clearly.

“Uh huh.” He glances over at me. I act like I’m not watching and listening. “I can’t get there this morning; I’ll swing by this afternoon.” He pauses for a second, listening, then says, “Yeah, okay. See you then.”

Wow. Such a smooth talker.

He hangs up before walking back toward the bed.

“Everything okay?” I ask, blithely. “Will your booty call survive without you?”

“What makes you think it’s a booty call?”

“The only reason a phone rings that many times is because someone really needs something. A guy friend would never call that much.”

He slides the phone into his pocket, then grabs a couple of notebooks from beside the bed. “For the record, I don’t do booty calls.”

“Oh? So, you’re a monk these days?”

“No. Just not really into meaningless sex.”

“That’s new. You used to bounce from woman to woman without breaking a sweat.”

“Yeah, then I became an adult.” He walks over and stands beside me. “What about you? I don’t see an engagement ring, but I have no doubt you’re making some poor guy miserable in your spare time. Are you as bossy in bed as you are in business?”

“I’m not talking about my sex life with you.”

“Is that because you don’t have one, or …?”

That one hits too close to home, and my face blushes hot.

“Oh, I see,” he says. “You’re having bad sex. Got it. So, I take it your taste in men hasn’t improved since dating my step-brother then.”

As if this conversation has prompted it, my phone beeps with a text message, and of course, when I flip it open, I see it’s from my boyfriend.

<Hey, beautiful. How’s your first day going? Wrangled your headstrong author yet? I’m sure you’re knocking it out of the park. Give me a call when you can. I’m going to be staying in Manhattan tonight. Late dinner? I need to see you, mon Cherie.>

I think I’m angling it away enough that Jake can’t read it, but when he whispers, “I’m headstrong? How dare he? Also, his name is Phillipe? Mon Cherie? Mon dieu!” in a deep, mocking voice, it’s clear I’ve failed.

I turn the phone upside down and point to the easy chair. “Sit down, and zip your lip. We have work to do.”

He folds his large frame into the shabby chair opposite me and leans his arms on the sides. “So, ‘ow long ‘ave you been dating zeess Phillipe person?” His French accent is ridiculous. He sounds like Lumiere in Beauty and the Beast.