Ten
SORA
We’ve been programmed to believe that someday Prince Charming will just waltz into our life. Slay the dragon or whatever. But what if Prince Charming never arrives? We need to be able to save ourselves.
—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
Jack steers me into the ER waiting room and gently helps me into the only open spot, an old maroon chair covered in geometric shapes and one mystery stain, which I desperately hope isn’t blood. Not too far from me, a man holds a frozen bag of peas to his eye. He flashes a grin at me, and I feel light-headed. I don’t think it has anything to do with my throbbing ankle.
“Wait here and I’ll go see if I can find my brother.”
“Hey.” I glance up at Jack. Wow, the stubble. The angled chin. Those amazing chocolate fondue eyes. Warm. Kind. For a second, I forget what I was going to say.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Uh … thanks. Really.”
“Not a problem,” Jack says, flashing me that toothpaste-commercial grin. “I’ll talk to the nurse.” He leaves me to saunter up to the nursing station, his shoulders so broad they take up all the air in the room. He’s really going to do it … save me from my exorbitant co-pay. What next? He does my taxes? Negotiates my next car loan? Makes sure I orgasm first?
Men like him don’t exist.
They’re like flying unicorns. Or diets that work. Or Thanksgiving dinners where no one talks politics.
They’re figments of an optimist’s imagination.
I glance at his back as he walks away. His jeans hug his perfect butt.
Okay. Stop looking at the man’s butt. I glance up at the white-tiled ceiling. A man this perfect has to have skeletons in his closet. It’s the only explanation. Otherwise, I’ll need to start believing in knights slaying dragons and being able to pay off a credit card for good. Fairy tales. I glance back at Jack, who looks like he’s starring in his own rom-com. Perfectly cast as the muscle-bound, baby-faced lumberjack with a heart of gold.
Then I remember the next installment of Solo February. A flash of the article runs through my brain.
I realize I spent a good part of my life waiting for a man to take care of things for me. I’m not proud of it, but it’s true. For example, I’ve had a leaky faucet for a while. Until last year, I always counted on my dad to come over and fix things like this. I couldn’t afford a plumber, so I thought I just had to live with it, until the Solo February Challenge. I looked up how to fix it online, and went to the local hardware store, where I bought a washer and a wrench. Fifteen minutes after I’d gotten home, I’d fixed the darn thing. All by myself.
Lesson learned a bit late, but still learned: I don’t need someone to fix things for me. I can do it myself.
Yet here I am, letting Jack help me.
But I also kind of like Jack helping me.
Argh.
I play a game of Twenty Questions with myself. Could I be at this ER by myself? Yes, of course. Do I want to be at this ER by myself? I glance at a red-headed man two seats down from me who’s periodically retching into a McDonald’s bag with some unknown illness. No, I definitely don’t want to be here alone.
And I remind myself, it’s not my fault that my sister bailed on me, and Jack just happened to be here. I didn’t ask for his help. He just … volunteered it. And I didn’t say no.
I watch as Jack talks with the nurse for a bit. He points to the back of the room, and she glances at me, and nods.
“Asha has a room for us,” Jack says when he returns to me. “She’s letting us skip the line.”
“How did you manage that?” I ask him, amazed.
“You’d be surprised what dropping off freshly baked scones in the ER once a month will get you.” He offers his hand. I put my hand in his and his big palm dwarfs mine. I wobble on one foot.
“I think it would be easier if I carried you.”
“Not easier for your back!”
Jack raises an eyebrow in challenge. “You can’t weigh much.” Oh, I can. And I do. “Would you mind…?”
“Wait, is this where you spike me on the ground like a football in revenge for turning you down for a date?”
Jack throws back his head and laughs. “No, I’m not going to spike you like a football.”
“No hard feelings for the other day?”
“Would I be here helping you if there were?” Could it be that Jack’s an … adult, too? Most men I’ve ever met were man-boys. Second-stage larvae who hold grudges.
“Okay, then.” He hands me the piece of cake to hold and sweeps me up in his arms, like I weigh nothing. I cling to his big brawny neck and notice he’s not even straining. Like not even a little bit. Veins in his forehead are not protruding. It’s unbelievably hot. I wish he was carrying me into his bedroom and not into an ER exam room.
“See? Isn’t this easier than limping around the waiting room? Asha says we can take exam room four. And Ian will be in to see us soon.”
Several people turn to watch Jack carry me across the ER. I feel like a princess, and Jack, my prince. And I have to remind myself that I don’t need a prince. I really don’t. Even if it does feel nice.
“Are you okay? Ankle okay?” Jack dotes on me as he swings me gently through the automatic doors to the large, bustling treatment center beyond the waiting room.
“How’s your back?” I ask him, worried.
“Back’s fine. You’re not heavy, Sora.”
“Liar.” With the amount of bacon I’ve consumed since the first of February, I know I have gained weight. But it’s a Solo and Scale-Free February for me.
We find exam room four, and he takes me through the curtain. He lays me like Snow White down on the exam bed. For a second, our noses are so close that they’re almost touching. His big brown eyes find mine, concerned, sweet, and gentle. Damn, those fine eyes. Those fine, fine eyes. They’re big and beautiful, just like his triceps. His lips part, and for a second, I wonder what it would feel like to have that beardstache rubbing up against my face. Razor burn would be a thousand percent worth it. Could he kiss me, right here? Would I transform from a bacon-loving, bitter singleton to a pretty, pretty princess? His eyes flick down to my lips. That’s it. That’s it. Right there …
Then he meets my gaze again. He laughs a little, sheepish. “I kind of need my neck back.”
And that’s when I realize that I’ve got one hand around the back of his neck in a death grip. For all practical purposes, I’m still holding him hostage, inches from my face. Damn. I’ve only been without men for a little while, and already I’ve turned into a sex-starved maniac. I balance the plastic-wrapped plate of chocolate cake on my thighs.
“Oh, right, sorry.” Not sorry. I release his thick neck and he straightens, grinning. He shrugs out of his peacoat and hangs it on the hook behind him. He straightens to his full height, before he sinks into a nearby chair.
An incoming text lights up my phone. Good. Something to do other than to worry about Jack Mann studying me like I’m a modern piece of art that defies logic and explanation.
Can’t wait for the new installment! Arial texts. We’re doing so well. What’s next?
Then I’m reminded that I am supposed to be single. Solo. Independent.
I try to imagine writing this ER scene and can’t. I’ll have to focus on FlyFit, but I’d have to leave out Jack’s gallantry.
Exercise classes are next. How we’re killing ourselves to look good for dates!
Arial gives the message a thumbs-up.
“Do you run a lot? Five k’s?” Jack asks me, nodding to my k-r-ot sweatshirt that I forgot I’m wearing, tearing my attention away from the possibility of full-time, steady employment. “That’s cool you help fund the children’s hospital.”
I glance down at the charity patch on my sleeve. “I walk more than I jog, but I give the parents with strollers a run for their money.”
Jack laughs. “Phew. I hate running. If you see me running down the street, call nine one one because someone is chasing me.”
We grin at each other again.
“How’s the ankle?” Jack nods at my ever-swelling appendage.
“Hurts. I blame Valentine’s Day.” I nod at a stupid heart-shaped cardboard decoration on the back of the door.
“Why?”
“I blame everything on Valentine’s Day. It’s just convenient that way.”
“You don’t like Valentine’s Day?” He leans forward, puzzled. “Does this have to do with the fifth-grade candy incident?”
“No. Yes. Maybe.” I have flashbacks to the Valentine’s Day aisle. “I just hate Valentine’s Day. Actually, hate is an understatement. If I could disembowel a holiday and wear its entrails as a trophy necklace I would.”
“Wow.” Jack whistles. “But what about all the chocolates?”
“I’ve never had those on Valentine’s Day.”
“Romantic walks? Candlelit dinners? Fresh-cut roses?” he prompts.
“My wallet was stolen on Valentine’s Day last year by a date I met on Spark. That’s about it in terms of excitement.”
“That’s terrible. Just who have you spent Valentine’s Day with?” Jack snaps his fingers. “Oh, wait. I remember. Marley.” He shifts a bit in his seat. “That explains so much.”
“Yeah. He refused to celebrate Valentine’s Day. He said it was against his belief system.”
Jack looks astonished. “Wow. That’s sad.”
Oh no. Now I sound like a pathetic girl who never got a valentine. I shift on the exam table, and a twinge of pain runs up my ankle to my leg. Ugh. Stupid ankle.
“Well, the Romans decapitated Saint Valentine for marrying couples,” I point out, trying to keep my ankle still. “How does it follow that we need to give each other boxes of cream-stuffed chocolates?”
“I suppose I hadn’t thought about it that way before,” he concedes. He stuffs his big hands in his pockets and rocks back, taking his chair onto two legs. The back of his head touches the wall.
“And did you know that Saint Valentine isn’t the patron saint of love? He’s the patron saint of epilepsy.” I’m on a roll.
“Because love gives you seizures?” he ventures, eyeing me as he sets his chair down again on four legs.
“Exactly! I mean, do you know that Hallmark and other arms of the commercial love machine—”
“Wait … commercial love machine?” Jack asks, confused.
“Yes. Jewelry companies. Chocolate manufacturers. All the people trying to make money by pressuring us all to be in love.” I make a face. “They grew this hardly noticed holiday into a billion-dollar industry. Last year, one hundred and forty-five million cards were exchanged. The average person spent nearly two hundred dollars on Valentine’s Day! Can you believe that?”
“So … this Solo February thing. It’s real.”
“Yes! Why?” I blink at him, confused.
“Oh, I just kind of thought you made it up. To blow me off.”
“Oh … oh, geez. No. It is real.” I pull up the entries on my phone and show him.
His eyes bulge. “Oh, it is real. Wow.” He leans forward in his chair, intent on the screen as he scrolls through for a second, before whistling low and handing me back my phone. “You’ve got a following. That’s cool. I mean, really cool.” Admiration shines in his eyes.
“Yeah.” I suddenly feel sheepish.
“I definitely think this should be a movie. We could call it The Sex Cleanse. Better than juice.”
“Or … Relationships: We Never Really Needed Them Anyway.”
“Or … Solo February: Now You Don’t Have to Share Your Chocolates Anymore.”
“Or … Bacon: The Other Man Meat.”
“No, no, no … Man-Dependence Day!”
We’re both cackling and I laugh so hard, I snort. Which makes Jack snort. My stomach hurts, and somehow, I’ve already felt like I’ve found my new best friend, or actually, the old one I’ve always had.
“You’re sure you’re not free the entire month of February?” he asks me. He raises his eyebrow in a challenge. How can I say no to those puppy-dog brown eyes? I mean … come on. But. I have to. I think about Arial. About Larry’s fancy kibble. “Yeah. I’m afraid so.”
Jack stares at the ceiling, as if sending up a prayer. He lets out a long sigh, his left knee bouncing. “What about March?”
“March is absolutely available.” We gaze at each other, a long, meaningful look, and about a million possibilities pass between us. But before we can talk about any of them, the door to the exam room swings open, and a younger, almost-as-gorgeous-but-not-quite version of Jack walks into exam room four. Okay, so clearly Jack’s genome just screams sex. It’s not an accident he turned out to be so damn fine. His parents did this at least twice on purpose.
“Ian!” Jack hops to his feet and gives his brother a hug and a couple of hearty back slaps.
“Jack.” Ian grins. “Who’s your…” He pauses a bit too long. “Uh, friend?”
“Sora,” Jack says quickly.
“Wait! Sora. Why is that name so familiar?” Ian asks.
“We went to school together.” Jack almost mumbles the answer.
“Sora! Yes. I remember! Sora.” He says the name with weird emphasis. Ian grins. “I was a year behind you in school. Good to see you again.” He sends Jack a look. Then he glances at my swollen ankle. “Though, I wish we’d met under different circumstances. Mind if I examine you?”
I shake my head, and Ian tentatively explores the ankle with his fingers. “Ow!” I cry, and pull back.
Ian frowns. “Well, it could be broken. Or just sprained. We’ll need an X-ray to be sure. How did this happen?”
“FlyFit,” I mumble.
“Fly what?” Jack echoes.
Ian just shakes his head. “That gym brings us twenty percent of our business. Whoever thought hanging from silk curtains is a good idea?”
“I know, right?” I shake my head. “The whole thing is ridiculous. My mom and sister wanted me to go.”
“Well, no more FlyFit. That’s doctor’s orders.”
“No problem. I plan on never exercising again. You know, just to be safe.”
Both Ian and Jack laugh, and it’s like baritone chuckling in stereo. “Okay, then. How about that X-ray?”
“Oh … no, I can’t afford that.” I shake my head. I don’t care how much extra I’m getting paid for Solo February.
Jack takes the chocolate cake from me and holds it up. “Okay, Ian, what deals can you cut us?”
Thankfully, I broke no bones. I just need rest and Advil, and Jack escorts me home in his car, a newish SUV, which he keeps pristine. The dashboard actually seems to gleam. There’s no trash anywhere, and even the cupholders are swiped and empty. Impressive. I sit sideways a bit, the seat pressed all the way back to allow for my ankle brace. My crutches lie in the back. The brace and crutches I got for free. Guess it really does pay to know the right people. Ian told me to ice and elevate the ankle and take a dose of ibuprofen. Even though we cut in line, the afternoon has slipped away, and now dusk quickly descends on the city. Jack parks the car, rushes around back to get my crutches, and then meets me on the passenger side, offering an arm to help me out.
“Are you seriously always this nice?” I ask as he helps me up the stoop of my vintage apartment building.
Jack laughs. “What do you mean?”
“I mean … you give out free tortes and free medical care?”
“Well, why not be generous.” He grins.
“Even after I accused you of grand theft candy.”
He laughs. “Hey, looks like we were both victims of that Valentine’s Day kindergarten party. I was framed.”
I snort. “Indeed. But now you’re driving me home? I mean, you’re too nice.”
“You think I was going to let you brave the icy sidewalks alone with crutches? After we’ve already established that I’m on the Save Chicago Sidewalks task force?”
I’ve never been more grateful for Jack’s strong arms. For one, the management company failed to shovel the new snow off the sidewalk, so there’s a three-inch layer of snow over the already-frozen two inches of ice. I plant one crutch and it instantly loses traction.
“Here, hang on to me.” Jack offers his neck and I throw an arm around it. He takes the crutches and holds them while steering me to the stoop. I lean against him, digging out my front keys. I slide the key in the lock and turn. As I push the door open, my boot catches on the mat.
“Whoa,” Jack cries, and steadies me with his big strong hands. “We don’t need another trip to the ER today.”
“No,” I say, and laugh.
“Can I?” Jack asks, holding out his arms.
“I’m on the third floor. I can’t let you carry me up there.”
“I can’t let you hop up there, either. It’ll take days. I’ve got other things to do today,” he teases. “Come on.”
I nod, and Jack whisks me into his arms again. Well, damn, I could get used to this. I’ve got my arms wrapped around the man’s neck and all I can think is: Mama like.
Also, he smells like Mexican hot chocolate. Spicy, sweet goodness. He doesn’t break a sweat as he hauls me up my apartment stairs. He even easily avoids the ornately carved oak staircase banister, somehow making sure my feet don’t clip the square baluster at each landing.
Just as I’m soaking up all this chivalry, a door bursts open, and Pam sticks her nosy tangerine-orange self out. “Sora? What the hell?” she asks.
Jack whirls, me in his arms.
“I sprained my ankle,” I tell her. “He’s just helping me up to my condo. That’s all.”
“Oh.” She eyes Jack with suspicion, as if trying to match his face to the FBI’s most-wanted list, which I am sure she regularly memorizes.
“This is Jack.” I nod to him.
“I’d shake, but I have my hands full.”
“I see that.” Pam purses her lips in disapproval. “Well, just so you know, if there will be strangers in the building regularly, you’ll need to let the condo board know.”
Since when? “Really? Why?”
“We’re cracking down on vacation rentals because I’m a single woman now that Thom isn’t here anymore. And my safety comes first.”
Nice how I’m not included in that.
“I guess you can’t be too careful these days,” Jack pipes in cheerfully, undeterred.
“Hey … one more thing,” Pam adds, almost as an afterthought. “I, uh…” She backtracks. “You started that #GoSolo thing?”
“Yeah?” I ask, almost fearing what she’ll say.
“A few of my friends are doing it.” Pam hesitates. “I think they’re being extreme or whatever, but … they seem to like it. They rave about it.”
“Really?” This might be the closest thing to a compliment Pam’s ever given me.
Jack clears his throat, and then I realize he’s still holding me, patiently, in his arms. Right. There’s this little bit of a problem about me doing #GoSolo and being cradled by the sexiest, sweetest man I’ve ever met.
“But isn’t he … against the rules?” Pam glances at Jack, a frown bending her mouth. “I don’t know much about it. I haven’t read any of it, or anything. Not my cup of tea.”
No, of course not. She makes it sound like dating problems are for lesser people.
“But…” She stares at him suspiciously. Annoyance flares in me. Pam does not get to tell me how I should do Solo February.
“Good to see you, Pam,” I cut her off. “We’ve got to go.”
She stares at us a beat, and then eventually ducks back into her condo as we continue up to my floor. Soon enough, I’ve forgotten about Pam. It’s hard to worry about my downstairs neighbor when Jack is cradling me gently to his chest. When we reach my door, he eases me gingerly down on my feet. I unlock my door and slide it open. I hesitate, hand on the knob. I glance up at Jack.
He stares at me as if he’s considering adding me to his dessert menu. Just slather some whipped cream on me, and I’ll happily hop on your plate, mister.
“Sorry about my neighbor. She’s just … a lot.”
“It’s fine.” He shrugs.
“And thanks again. For the ER visit. For the door-to-door service.”
“It’s not a problem.” And looking at him, right in his warm brown eyes, I believe him. That he really doesn’t mind helping me.
“I—”
“Hey—”
We both speak at the same time. Then we both giggle awkwardly. I want to climb him like a tree and ride him like a tire swing.
“Go ahead,” Jack says, a blush creeping on his high cheekbones.
“I just want to say thank you. I mean, really,” I say. “And … uh…” In the heat of my moment of gratitude, I reach up on the tiptoe of my good foot and kiss him.
Brazenly.
Before I can even think about it. Because this man has carried me up three flights of stairs. Because he’s the sexiest man I might have ever met, and because he’s nice, like, deep, good person nice, and because damn it, I want to. I’ve wanted to kiss this man since I first saw him frosting baked goods at Margo’s.
It’s brief. It’s closed-mouthed, but I still feel a bolt of lust run straight through me. Or maybe that’s static electricity. In any case, I kiss him, and then I withdraw. He blinks at me, surprised, but I duck into my apartment like a coward, and leave him standing there on my doormat.