Beth Andrews - What Happens Between Friends

Yeah, she thought, eating another cracker, that’s what she’d do. She’d turn this boring, bland house into a warm and welcoming home.

The cracker tasted like sawdust. Her scalp prickled with unease. With a sense of foreboding.

The sense that she was missing something by not having a place like that for herself.

Which was ridiculous. She didn’t want a home. Not a permanent one, anyway. Roots were well and good for her mom and sister—they didn’t mind being stuck in the same town, surrounded by the same people, doing the same things over and over again. Day after day. Year after year.

You might be able to have both roots and wings, but you couldn’t fly, couldn’t have true freedom with your feet planted in the ground.

That’s what she had, she assured herself, digging a spoon out of the utensil drawer before taking her food into the great room. Freedom. Choices. The ability to take off for new adventures or opportunities whenever the mood struck her.

The ease of leaving behind a crappy apartment, friends who were barely more than acquaintances and men she’d never really loved anyway when things went belly-up.

“Things always go belly-up,” she whispered to Elvis as she settled onto the couch.

With a sigh that was made up of more oh-woe-is-me than any self-respecting, independent woman should experience, she curled her legs under her.

The moon shone through the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows and cast dappled shadows across the braided rug in the middle of the room. Like the kitchen, this room, too, was a study in browns—plush leather couch and two armchairs the color of chocolate, russet-and-tan oval braided rug, oak coffee and end tables.

The man really needed some color in his life.

Built-in shelves filled with books and framed photos lined both sides of the fireplace and a large, flat-screen TV hung on the opposite wall. When they had gotten to his house after the party, James had helped her give Elvis a bath before calling it a night. Though she was exhausted, Sadie had tossed and turned for hours on the comfy double bed in the guest room upstairs.

“What are you doing up?”

She squeaked and almost dropped her spoon. Sticking it into the peanut butter, she glared at James. “You about gave me a heart attack, sneaking up on me in that ninja way of yours.”

“Please tell me I’m sleepwalking,” he said from his bedroom’s doorway, his deep voice gravelly, Zoe at his side, “and you’re not really eating my peanut butter straight from the jar.”

“I’m not really eating your peanut butter from the jar,” she said around the spoon in her mouth. “You’re sleepwalking. It’s all just a dream. A horrible, horrible dream.”

James crossed to the floor lamp and turned it on—the better to illuminate his adorable scowl. He was so cute, trying to be all stern and angry with her.

Thank God that would never happen. He was too sweet, too even-tempered and well, too dang nice to lose his cool, much less get mad at her.

He towered over her. “If you let that dog lick the spoon then put it back in there I’m tossing you both out.”

He seemed...bigger somehow. Broader. His faded Pittsburgh Pirates T-shirt clung to his shoulders, his sweatpants hung low on his flat stomach. He should have looked harmless, funny with his dark hair sticking up on one side, his eyes heavy with sleep.

Her breath shouldn’t be stuck in her throat just from looking at him. She shouldn’t want to smooth his hair, keep her hand there to run her fingers through the strands.

She swallowed hard. “Do people really eat after their pets?” She used the spoon to scoop out more peanut butter. Ate it, though she wasn’t sure she could get it past the tightness in her throat. “That doesn’t seem very hygienic.”

“You’re like a teenage boy,” he grumbled.

She choked back a surprised laugh. “Not sure that’s an accurate assessment, but seeing as how it’s so late, I won’t hold it against you. What are you doing up? Couldn’t sleep?”

He grunted.

“Do you happen to have a pocket translator I could borrow?” she asked. “I don’t speak caveman.”

“I heard footsteps.”

Instantly contrite, she sat up straight. “I’m sorry. Elvis and I thought we were being very stealthlike.”

“You probably were, but Zoe hears every sound. She woke me, I heard you moving around and here I am. What’s your excuse?”

She wished she knew. For weeks...months...she’d been restless. On edge.

Unhappy.

No, she corrected quickly, not unhappy. More like...dissatisfied. Unsure of what she should do next, where she should go. Sometimes she was even unsure of who she was anymore. Who she wanted to be.

“Elvis and I just wanted a snack.”

“How can you be hungry? My mom had enough food at the party for two hundred people.”

“I didn’t get a chance to eat much.”

“That’s because you didn’t stop talking long enough to take a breath, let alone eat.”

“I’m sociable and people want to chat with me. It’s a burden. Hey,” she said, remembering her earlier promise to the dog, “want to order a pizza?”

“Where are you going to find a pizza parlor open at two forty-five in the morning?”

Good question. Panoli’s, her favorite pizza place in Shady Grove, was probably long closed. “We could drive into Pitts—”

“Sadie.” His voice was soft, his gaze patient. “What’s wrong?”

His kindness undid her. “I screwed up,” she admitted, injecting a lightness she didn’t feel into her tone. “Nothing new there.”

Nothing new except that this time—for the first time—screwing up, failing so spectacularly, bothered her. It had been weeks, and she still hadn’t been able to shake off the sense of malaise, of disappointment in herself.

She shook her head. Tried to smile. “Hey, I have something for you,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

She hurried up the stairs and into the room on the left, dug through her suitcase until she found the brightly wrapped package. When she returned downstairs, he was on the couch, his legs straight, his head resting against the back.

“Happy birthday,” she said, holding the present out.

Looking from her to the gift and back again, he sat up.

But he didn’t take it.

For some stupid reason, nerves settled in her stomach. “I hope you don’t mind that it’s technically late—though I’d like to point out only by a few hours.”

Finally, he took the present. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Of course I did. It’s your birthday. Besides, I’m hoping this’ll make up for not getting you anything the past few years.”

He stared at the package in his hands. “I don’t expect anything from you, Sadie.”

He didn’t. Never had. She appreciated it. Counted on it. “I know, but I saw this and I had to get it for you.”

James was so thoughtful, always sending her flowers or her favorite chocolates on her birthday while the most she usually did was give him a call. It wasn’t as if she didn’t think about him—she did. Often.

“Besides,” she continued, “this isn’t the first gift I’ve given you. Two years ago I sent you that subscription to National Geographic.”

“It was four years ago. And you sent it a month late.”

“I did?”

Not seeming upset about it, he nodded and unwrapped the present. His smile bloomed, slow and warm. “This is great.”

Relieved, she sat next to him. “You like it?”

“Are you kidding?” He opened the first-edition copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, his long fingers smoothing the aged pages. “I love it.” Wrapping one arm around her shoulders, he gave her a quick hug. “Thank you.”