Chapter 29

By Monday I could predict that the week would be about a five thousand percent improvement over the previous one in terms of productivity and Jack. Not that he was the measure of whether a week was good or bad, but it made a noticeable difference when he wasn’t a problem I had to solve. He was “around,” and I didn’t have to figure out how to distract myself from him.

I texted him a picture of a seagull hanging out on the ledge outside of my balcony. He responded, Surrender your Cheetos and he’ll leave you alone. He must take them to his leader.

Has Transcendent Seagull really transcended if he needs Cheetos for happiness?

Even swamis have to eat sometimes.

He called after dinner. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to figure out what I want to eat. I’m out of Cheetos.”

“You should have a salad. Mondays are always salad days.”

“Is that what you’re having?”

“Yeah. I make perfect salads on Monday when I’m motivated to eat well.”

“Define ‘perfect salad.’ Does it have Cheeto croutons?”

“Mixed greens, protein, fruit, cheese, nuts, and probably a vinaigrette. Please don’t think less of my masculinity because I said vinaigrette.”

“Too late.” I heard the sound of a plastic wrapper crinkling.

“I put Cheetos on it for croutons.”

“All points restored. I’ll make a salad too.”

We chatted about work while I puttered in the kitchen. Well, about my work. He hadn’t said much about his. I wished he would. I wanted to know more. And then I remembered that I could ask him. “How did it go at work today?”

He sighed, and I braced for a diversion of topics. But he said, “Fine. I’m having to become an expert in diabetes though. The obesity epidemic is no joke.”

“Feeling bad about those Cheetos on your salad now?”

“I didn’t actually put any on my salad.”

“Duh. So clinic work is way different than your old gig?”

“Yeah. I do general practice now. The problem is that a lot of people need specialists, and I can’t convince them to drive the hour into Portland to see them. So they depend on me for a ‘good enough’ Band-aid fix. But these aren’t Band-aid problems.”

We talked for an hour that passed like five minutes, and I learned about the life of a country doctor. He did pretty much everything from acting as his own receptionist and nurse to being a nutritionist and psychiatrist for the range of issues that walked through the clinic doors.

“Sounds tiring,” I said.

He yawned even though it wasn’t quite ten yet. “Yeah. It is. And I need to get in early tomorrow. Got the sheriff to agree to come in on the condition that I meet him at six a.m. when he’s on his way home from his shift.”

“Why do you have to work the weird hours to accommodate him?”

“Because it’s the only way to get him in, and for HIPAA reasons I can’t explain why, but the dude really needs to see a doctor. Even if it’s just me.”

“What do you mean ‘just you’? When I was stalking you to dig up your deepest secrets before, you seemed like kind of a big deal.”

“In my field. I was good at that until I wasn’t. I’m only average at this general practice stuff, but I’m all they’ve got here, so imagine how obvious the problem is if even I can tell by looking. If that means showing up at 6 a.m. then that’s how it goes.”

“Good luck.” We hung up, and I grinned. It had been such an ordinary conversation, but I felt like I already understood Jack twice as well as I had before.

Tuesday ended up being a garbage day at work, and I came home in a distracted frame of mind that even my workout endorphins couldn’t settle. My brain kept buzzing, irritation with my team flaring up every few minutes. I needed an even bigger distraction, something that would keep me so focused I couldn’t worry about work.

I texted Jack. “Scrabble?’

He texted back. “It’s on. I’ll FaceTime you in five minutes.”

“Hi,” he said, when I answered. “You ready to lose?”

I snorted. “Nah. I’ve been training.”

“How do you train for Scrabble?”

“Been eating dictionary pages for breakfast. Prepare to lose.”

“You okay?” he asked as he pinged me with an invitation to a new game.

I accepted. “Fine. Work was lame.”

“What happened?”

“There’s a bug in the new update that rolls out in two weeks, and my lead developer melted down which threw the rest of the team off their game. It’ll be fine. I’ll sit down with her tomorrow and talk it through, come up with a game plan, fix the issues.”

“Sounds like it’ll be okay.”

“It will. It’s just that we left work without any of that resolved and now I feel...” I shrugged, at a loss for how to explain it.

“Like you have an emotional pebble in your psychic shoe?”

That made me laugh. “Exactly like that. How did you think of that?”

“Easy. Watch.” He made his game play. It was “pebble” for 30 points.

“You’re supposed to be making me feel better. That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Sorry, not sorry.”

“Then I’m not sorry for this,” I said, playing from the end of “pebble” to make “pebbled” and “dryer” for 31 points. “But in other news, I feel better about work.”

He gave me his best stank face. “That’s it. No more Mr. Nice Guy. I was going to let you win by a little but now I’m going to crush you.”

It only made it more satisfying when I squeaked out a win by twenty before we called it a night.

Wednesday night he texted, Want to hate watch that new medical drama with me?

I saw the first two episodes. I liked it,I texted back.

You won’t when I’m done with it.

He was right. We watched it while on the phone, and he dismantled every unrealistic element of the show, making me laugh the whole time.

“Wow,” I said when the end credits rolled. “Did they get anything right?”

He thought for a second. “The ER doctors do wear scrubs. That’s about it.”

I went to bed smiling again.

Thursday I texted him that my team worked out the bug. He sent me a picture of Transcendent Seagull eating a giant cockroach. When the doorbell rang about fifteen minutes after I got home that night, Ranée looked up at me in confusion. “Why is someone ringing our doorbell? Did you order take out? Can I have some?”

“I didn’t order anything.”

“It’s obviously a murderer then. Don’t answer it.”

“How about I check the peephole?”

She shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”

There was a delivery guy on the other side. “Wrong address,” I called through the door.

“Delivery for Emily Riker,” he called back.

“Just so you know, it’s a bad sign when you can’t even remember ordering food for yourself. Do I need to put you in a home? Also, can I have some of whatever you got?”

I ignored her and opened the door. “I didn’t order anything.”

The delivery guy shrugged. “You got food. It’s paid for.”

“Was there any kind of note?”

He sighed like it was a massive imposition, but he fished his phone from his pocket and checked. “Oh. Yeah. It says, ‘Congratulations on showing that bug who’s boss.”

I opened the plastic bag he’d been holding toward me. “Sushi!”

“I want!” Ranée called.

I tipped him and shut the door. “I’ll share.”

I set the tray of assorted pieces on the table and handed her a pair of chopsticks. She took a bite of a California roll, nodded her approval, and then kept eating while keeping her eyes fixed on me in an expression I knew well. It was her “solving a problem” look.

“What?”

She swallowed her current bite. “I don’t see how you and Jack this week are any different than you and Jack in previous weeks. Tell me again what this is?”

“A friendship.”

“You don’t do this for any of your friends. None of your friends would do this for you.”

“Of course you would. Remember when we celebrated my last big work victory with shoe shopping and sugar and TV bingeing?”

“All right, but I’m your best friend. That isn’t what it means when a guy does this.”

“It means exactly the same thing. That we’re friends.”

She leaned over and petted my hair. “You’re so cute when you lie to yourself.”

“I’m not lying to myself.”

She ate a couple more bites of sushi. “Fine. You’re not lying to yourself. You guys are just friends. This is in no way a substitute for a real dating life.”

“No.”

“Give me your phone.”

“Are you going to text something stupid to Jack?”

“I could do that with my own phone, so no. I’m not going to talk to Jack at all. Give it to me.”

“I don’t know why I always obey you.” I handed her my phone.

“Because I’m relentless in wearing you down, so you’re saving yourself a headache by giving in up front.”

“Oh, yeah.”

She unlocked the screen and scanned it for a minute, then turned it around so I could see the icon for the dating app we both used sometimes. “This has seven notifications. When’s the last time you checked it?”

“I don’t know. I’m busy.”

“You’re no busier than you were three weeks ago when you were going on dates every day. And so far you’ve had enough time to hang out with Jack every night this week. And you guys are playing Scrabble and he’s ordering you food and you text all day and watch TV shows together on the phone. He’s your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“He’s your something.”

“Yes. My friend.”

She squinted at me. “Is it hard to be you? With the whole not-living-in-reality thing, I mean?”

“Just because you don’t understand the concept of guy friends doesn’t mean I can’t have one.”

“I understand the concept. I have a ton. None of which order me dinners and spend hours on Facetime or the phone with me every night.” She pushed her sushi away. “Look, I’m only worried about you. You’ve said you’re ready for a relationship, and I think you are too. That’s why I’m worried. This thing with Jack is filling all the emotional spaces any other relationship would need from you, so now you’re not looking.”

“I’m fine.” I waved a piece of uni at her. “Know why? Because I’m a self-aware adult. I really am fine with this being a friendship with Jack. It’s not a big deal. You have my full permission to jump in and pull me out of the deep end if you see me drowning, but I’m splashing around in the shallows and otherwise focusing on my career. It’s fine. I’m fine,” I repeated. “But thank you.”

“You said you’re fine a lot in that speech. You know, the way people repeat stuff when they’re trying to convince someone? Like themselves, maybe.”

“I. am. fine.”

“Okay, great. So I’m imagining things, and there aren’t so many red flags in this situation that it might as well be a 49ers home game?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Good to know.”

“Can we eat sushi in peace now?”

We did, talking about work instead. When she got up to take a shower, I texted Jack. Excellent dinner. Thank you.

He sent a thumbs up emoji, and just to prove to Ranée that it wasn’t a big deal, I didn’t answer him.

The next morning I got another text from him. I’ve got a surprise for you this afternoon.

What is it? I demanded.

Oh, sorry. Wasn’t clear. I have a S-U-R-P-R-I-S-E for you.

Is it a pony?

No. Don’t bother guessing. You won’t figure this out.

Of course I spent the whole morning texting him pictures of my guesses. By lunch, I could confirm that it wasn’t a monkey, Thighmaster, shave ice machine, or T-rex suit. That was everything I wanted, I texted. Better return whatever it is.

Too late. Surprise in motion.

Interesting.

Ranée might try to pin my good mood for the rest of the day on her wrongheaded interpretation of our friendship, but I loved surprises. I would have been just as cheered by the promise of a surprise from my mom.

Ranée called me about an hour before I was supposed to get home. “Hey, so, uh…I want you to brace yourself. I just got a text from my brother. He says he’s in town, he wants to know if he can stay at our place. And…he brought company.”

I’d been standing at my office window, staring out while I took her call on a short break, but her announcement dropped me into my chair like she’d shoved me there. “Wait, what? Sean drove down from Oregon and he brought company? Who is it?”

Jack. It had to be. This was the surprise that must be “in motion.”

“Your guess is as good as mine, but my guess is pretty good.”

I cursed.

“You’re not happy about this?”

“I wasn’t prepped for this!”

“Doesn’t matter, right? You guys are just friends?”

“Not now, Ranée.” And I hung up on the sound of her laughing.

Jack was here? And coming to my house? How…what…Why?