Eleven
JACK
Going solo might not always be easy, but it will always be worth it.
—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
Sora Reid kissed me.
On the lips.
Sora freakin’ Reid kissed me.
I think I might have stood there on her door mat for a good five minutes, trying to process what happened. Wondering if I just imagined it happened at all.
My little inner five-year-old does an awkward celebratory somersault. My inner Neanderthal gives that adorable, pudgy kindergartener a high five.
Yes.
So, I was right. We do have a connection. Something. Still, I try not to read anything into it. I shouldn’t get my hopes up. She’s still doing that Solo February thing. Right? Isn’t she?
Then again, she did smash her face against mine. How can I not read something into it?
“Maybe it was just a pity kiss,” says Ian, on his lunch break later that week. It’s the day before Valentine’s Day and I’m trying to convince Ian to spend tomorrow doing something romantic with his wife. But he seems too intent on trying to distract me.
“Thanks, man. That does not help me.” We’re eating sandwiches at the place across the street from the hospital. We’re sitting at a four-top near the front windows.
“I’m just saying that you basically got her out of at least a grand’s worth of ER expenses. Could’ve just been a pity kiss.”
“Didn’t feel like a pity kiss,” I grumble. Felt more like a real kiss. I know the difference. Besides, I’ve been wondering what that woman’s lips tasted like ever since I first considered that girls might not be gross and covered in cooties. Now I know: vanilla. The woman tastes like a vanilla crème brûlée. Don’t know if it was her lip gloss or just her, but she tastes like perfection.
“I don’t know, man.” Ian shakes his head. He takes another big bite of his sandwich, a bit of turkey falling onto the paper wrapping he’s spread across the bright yellow plastic table. “Why waste your time with a head case? I mean, she’s pretty. I mean, really pretty, but just because you knew her way back when doesn’t mean you know her, know her. She’s doing this ‘solo’ thing or whatever? And it sounds a little crazy. Or bitter. Or both.”
“I don’t think she wants to hate men. I just think she’s had bad luck.” And I know a thing or two about bad luck. I nibble on a chip.
“No. It’s not bad luck. She’s hot. And crazy. Which, given the fact you spent so much time with Mal, I’d say is your type.”
“Hey.” I nudge my younger brother, but he just laughs. “She’s not crazy. She loves bacon, that’s all.”
“Sounds like she wants to marry bacon.” Ian raises an eyebrow, nodding down at the open screen on my phone. Maybe it was a mistake to show him some of those articles.
“Who doesn’t?” I ask, defensive.
“Don’t do that threesome,” my brother warns. “You can seriously still get trichinosis.”
I laugh and shake my head and take another bite of Italian beef.
My phone pings. A DM from Sora? I open it eagerly.
There is a photo of her signed fifth-grade yearbook.
And my deranged drawing of a bee.
I snort a laugh. It’s perfect. “She might be the perfect woman,” I say, showing Ian the picture.
“What the hell is that? A sheep with rabies?”
“It’s a bee. Bee cool. Get it? That’s my drawing. From when we were kids.” I type off a quick response.
That’s not even my best work. You should see some of my Pictionary masterpieces of 1999.
“You are such a nerd.” Ian shakes his head.
A frazzled-looking nurse bursts through the door then, sending a blast of arctic air to our table. She sends us a look of apology and I realize she’s without her coat. Probably thought she could sprint the distance from the hospital entrance to the sub shop without bothering to get her coat, but the wind chill outside is negative two degrees. Good luck with that.
We chew in silence for a bit. The nurse gets a hastily made sandwich and then sprints back out into the cold again. I watch her run back to the hospital through the window.
I’m going to have to bring up Kylie and why he skipped Allie’s birthday party sometime. I hate getting into this stuff, but if Marc does it, he’ll come in heavy-handed like a military dad and Ian will clam up. “So, what was up with Saturday?”
“What do you mean?” Ian glances up, dark eyes meeting mine and looking wary.
“Allie’s birthday. How come the double shift?”
Ian chews and says nothing for a long while. I almost think he might not answer and just pretend I never asked the question.
“Extra hours come with the job,” he says, studying his turkey sandwich. “You know that.”
“Yeah.” I nod, deliberately not mentioning that I know he volunteered for the shift. That would just make him defensive. “I bet someone would’ve covered for Allie’s birthday.” Everyone at the hospital knows Allie, knows about her struggles. They even all chipped in to buy her balloons on her birthday the year before.
Ian takes a sip of his cup of water, and drops into a moody silence. I don’t want to press. If Ian wants to tell me what’s on his mind, he will.
I take another bite and we munch in silence for a minute.
“Things have been hard this year, for both of us,” Ian says eventually, studying the open sandwich wrapper on the table as if it’s a picture roll of all the memories of the last year. “And sometimes … I mean … it feels like we’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“What do you mean?” I take a sip of my Coke and wait.
“You know there’s a twenty percent chance that cancer comes back. A one-in-five chance.”
“Yeah? So there’s an eighty percent chance it doesn’t. I’ll take those odds.”
Ian shakes his head, looking grim. “Yeah, but I just don’t know if I can do it again. Allie was it, you know that. First time I saw that kid, I was gone, hook, line, and sinker. And last year … when we almost lost her…” Ian swallows the rest of his sentence and drops his sandwich down on the wrapper.
“But you didn’t lose her.”
“Yeah, but this will hang over her for the rest of her life. And then who knows what the hell that chemo will do to her development.” Ian grits his teeth together and meets my gaze, eyes full of pain. “You know they don’t have good medicine for children. We use adult drugs on them and just hope for the best. We need more research.”
“Yeah.” Ian often went down this rabbit hole, and I get it. Frustrated the hell out of all of us about how much we ought to be doing to help find better treatments for kids with cancer. Hell, maybe even one day cure the damn thing. “So you’re worried about Allie. That’s why you’re spending more time at the hospital? I’m just trying to understand.”
“I guess. I don’t know.” He gazes out at the street as cars rush by, a few of them pulling into the parking garage of the hospital across the street. “I think part of me is just scared.”
“Man, you’re the bravest guy I know. You take care of gunshot victims. Remember that time you said you were elbow-deep in that guy’s chest? And don’t even get me started on the pandemic. You went in to work every day, without complaint, even though it meant you slept in an RV away from your family so Kylie and Allie wouldn’t get sick. You are brave as hell.”
But I know what he means. He means he’s scared of losing Allie, scared the cancer will come back, and scared to let his family get too close because that means the possibility of losing them all over again. We both stare out the window, watching the people bustle in and out of the hospital. Workers but patients, too. You can identify the relatives of the patients. They look worried, anxious.
“I’m not that brave.” He glances at me. “Just braver than you, and that’s not hard.”
“Hey!” I shove his shoulder.
“Just saying—didn’t you keep the closet light on to sleep until high school?”
“Middle school.”
“Same difference,” Ian says, and laughs. He stares out the window and watches a bus rumble by, a big puff of black smoke coming out of the back.
“Look, why don’t you take my sweet sister-in-law out for dinner tomorrow night. I’ll babysit,” I offer. “Try to reconnect or something? You know?”
“You’d babysit Allie.” He studies me, not quite sure the offer is real.
“Of course! She can even paint my nails like last time.” That was one helluva mess. But I can’t say no to that kid.
“Okay. Maybe. I’ll ask Kylie if she wants to go out.”
“She’ll want to go out.” I remember her strained smile at Allie’s birthday party. She wants help. Wants a lifeline. I can feel it.
I finish the last of my sandwich and wad up the empty wrapper. “What’s that quote from Shawshank Redemption you used to always say?”
“Better get busy living, or get busy dying,” he says.
“That’s the one.” I grin. The high-pitched ambulance siren blaring down the street draws our attention then, and the big white box arrives with flashing red and blue lights, pulling up to the emergency entrance of the hospital. Ian tosses his trash in a nearby can.
“Well, that’s my cue,” he says. “Work calls. Thanks for lunch, man.” He shrugs into his jacket. “What are you up to this afternoon?”
“I’m going to drop by Sora’s place. See if she needs anything.” The bee text made me hopeful she might be up for company.
Ian clucks his tongue in disapproval. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“No. But she did sprain her ankle. She might need soup or something.”
“Soup is for colds.” Ian rolls his eyes.
“You know what I mean.”
“What I think you mean is you’re hoping for another pity kiss.”
I DM Sora to let her know I’m in her neighborhood. Just your friendly Hey, let me know if you need anything DM. Or, if you want an impromptu game of Pictionary that you will definitely win, I’m ready and able.
She pings me back instantly.
Pictionary is a yes, but only if alcohol is involved, because I only think I can draw when I’m drunk. And … maybe ibuprofen? I’m out! I’ll pay you back.
I type The first bottle of ibuprofen is free. Second will cost you.
I head to a drugstore near her condo, grab an industrial-sized bottle of ibuprofen, and as I do, I see the Valentine’s aisle. I glance around at the fancy cream-filled chocolates in big red heart-shaped boxes and wonder if they have an “I Hate Valentine’s Day” assortment. Flavors? Bitter Lemon. Dark Chocolate of Despair. Forever Single Strawberry. Never Getting In My Bed Buttercream?
Maybe chocolates aren’t such a bad idea. Besides, thanks to Valentine’s Day being this week, they’re on sale. Buy one, get one 50 percent off. I think she needs at least two. Plus, okay, didn’t she have a dog? I could get her that dog toy, the one at the end of the aisle that has the big plush heart with the white hands and feet. Maybe watching her pit-mix tear into it will amuse her?
I grab the chocolates and dog toy along with an impulse-buy purchase of a bottle of red wine.
Outside, the sun has slunk beyond the horizon, even though it’s not yet 4 P.M. Welcome to winter in Chicago. In less than a block, I’m standing at the buzzer of her vintage apartment building. The outer door has a full-length window, showing the silver mailboxes, and it’s big enough for someone to have left their bike.
I hit the buzzer next to Reid.
I wait. A cold February chill whips up, swirling the patch of snow by my feet. I shiver as I hear Sora’s voice crackling through the speaker.
“Hello?”
“Hey. Uh. It’s me. Jack. I’ve got that ibuprofen!”
“Oh! Yes!”
The buzzer sounds. A bleating-goat call from heaven. I shake off the shock and grab the front door and swing it open.
I kick snow from my black boots on the rug then head up the stairs to her place. I get to her door and knock gently.
I hear frantic scurrying around inside, and a dog’s unmistakable bark, and then what sounds like the opening and shutting of a cabinet or door and mumbled curses. Then she swings open the door looking flushed and slightly sweaty, wearing her long, dark hair up in a high ponytail, her faded blue T-shirt not doing much of a job covering her black leggings. She’s got fuzzy socks on, and it looks like her ankles are almost the same size. She grins and her brown eyes meet mine, bright and happy. Right then, I am very, very glad I came. She eyes the bags in my hands with surprise.
“I … got more than just ibuprofen. Figured you might need some chocolate. Or wine. Especially if we’re busting out the Pictionary.”
She hesitates a moment, glancing at the bags. Crap. Did I overstep? But the texts were flirty. Or so I thought. Am I misreading everything again? Then I realize she’s laser-focused on the heart-shaped boxes of chocolate. “You brought Valentine’s chocolate.”
“You said no one has bought chocolates for you before and that’s a crime. I mean, you can burn it if you want. But it’s the good kind.” I nod at the brand. “Or we could also just have wine instead.” I offer up the bottle. She blinks fast, still confused.
“You brought all this. For me.”
“And this—” I grab the plush dog toy from the bottom of the bag. “For your rescue dog.”
Sora bites her bottom lip, and for a second, I think she might cry. Then she moves in and lets her big pit-mix hedge his way out. Woah, he’s huge. Stout. Intimidating looking. He could take a bite out of me without really trying.
“Larry’s a softie, really,” Sora reassures me.
“Oh, hey, boy.” I offer my hand, but he reaches up to sniff and misses me by at least two inches. It’s then I realize that his perpetual wink is because he’s missing an eye.
“He’s not good spatially. He never adjusted to losing an eye—raccoon, the shelter said,” Sora explains, and so I move my hand so he can sniff it. Then I hold up the round plush toy and figure I’ll toss it to him, and maybe he’ll catch it.
“Here, boy. Here! Catch it!” I toss it in the air, and he jumps up to get it, but he misses by a good six inches.
“He can’t catch things very well. Or fetch,” she adds, as Larry scrambles to pick up the plush, but misses it time and again. Poor dude.
Taking pity on him, I lean in and pick it up, then manage to put it right in his giant, open mouth. “Here you go.” Larry happily trots off to a back corner of the apartment. “I don’t want to intrude. I just wanted to see if you’re okay.”
Sora studies me. “Want to come in?”
“Can I? Or does that violate Solo February?”
“Get in here before I change my mind,” Sora teases, and I hop to it, following her into her modest vintage condo. “Shall we have wine?” she asks.
“I think it’s a must.”
The kitchen looks newish, but rarely used, as the stove and oven seem pristine. She limps over to the gray cabinets and retrieves a couple of wineglasses and then a bottle opener from a drawer.
“Let me do that. You rest your ankle.”
She laughs a little. “I’m fine.”
“You may not have broken anything, but you need to rest.” I move closer to reach for the corkscrew, and as I do, I brush her arm. She flails a little, and I worry her weak ankle will bring her down. I steady her with one hand, and she glances up at me, eyes grateful. And sexy as hell. Damn, but … those lips. Big, plump, kissable. And now I know they taste like crème brûlée. And for a second, everything stops, and we just stare at each other, the pure desire taut between us like a guitar string.
She’s got to feel that. She can’t help but feel it. Right?
Then I remember she’s standing on a hurt ankle.
“How about I help you to the couch?” I offer.
“I can manage,” she says, limping a little. But I follow her, acting as her crutch, just in case. She sinks into the blue-gray cushions and smiles up at me. “Thank you.” Her voice is barely a whisper. I reluctantly leave her to uncork the wine.
“I like your place,” I say, glancing around her small but neat living room. It works as living room/dining room and part of the open kitchen. A compact blue sectional and small matching armchair sit in the middle of the room, and a jungle of plants lines the small hallway to the kitchen. She doesn’t have much on her walls, and there’s an unpacked box or two making the place feel a little like she just arrived, but not in a bad way, I think. Her flat-screen TV stands on a glass console table to the left. Windows line the back of the room, and a door to the right leads to what seems like a bedroom, as I can just see the white corner of an unmade bed. The exposed red brick on the wall behind the couch makes the room feel warmer and brighter, as does the pine floor. I see a small silver laptop open on her kitchen table.
“You writing another Solo February post?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, and nods. “This one’s about the joy of spending time with friends instead of … on dates.”
“Oh. That’s good.” I guess it’s good. Are we friends? I was hoping for more than friends, but I’ll take friends.
I fill her oversized wineglasses with two generous pours and head to the sofa. Since it’s an L-shaped sectional, I take the shorter end of the L.
“To healing quickly,” I say, offering up my glass for a toast.
“Amen,” she says, and leans forward to clink my glass. I take a sip of the drugstore wine, relieved to discover it’s drinkable. She doesn’t seem to mind it either as she takes a big gulp. We stare at each other for a small beat of awkward silence.
“Want a chocolate?” I offer up the first giant red heart full of delicacies.
She opens the lid of the giant heart, tapping her finger on her plump, pink lips. “Which one?” she debates, as she scans all the options—light, dark, and white truffles, all with mystery fillings.
“Well, you should eat them all,” I say. “If this is your first true box of Valentine’s chocolates, then I think, by law, you have to try them all.”
“Well, I have bought some myself. On February fifteenth, when they’re seventy-five percent off.”
“Full-price chocolates taste better. And gifted chocolate? That’s always the best. I mean, it’s just basic science.”
Sora laughs, her head tilted back, face a perfect heart shape. She takes one and bites into it. “Mmmm. Salted caramel. I think you’re right.” She glances at me through her thick, pretty lashes. “Want to try it?” she offers up the half-bitten chocolate.
“Hell, yes.”
And then she feeds it to me.
I taste the burst of salty sweetness.
“Delicious.” I wash it down with wine and she does the same, and before I know it, we’ve eaten more than half the damn box, all while debating the merits of nougat versus caramel. We’ve also drained our wineglasses and refilled them again. A warm buzz sinks into my brain. I’m feeling more relaxed. That’s probably a dangerous thing.
“Can I ask you a question?” I say, after we’ve both shared a new milk chocolate almond truffle. We’ve settled into the couch, Sora laying on the long part of the L, her feet toward me, swollen ankle elevated on a pillow, ice pack on it (my idea), and me, back against the short end of the L. My left arm sits inches from her socked feet. It feels comfortable. Cozy. Like we could relax together forever.
“Sure,” she says, licking the chocolate off her finger.
The bees are back in my brain, buzzing, making me feel light-headed. It’s because Sora might have short-circuited all the neurons in my frontal lobe.
“I know you vowed to go solo this month.”
She tenses a little. “Yeah?”
“So does that mean you’re not dating … that other guy?”
“What other guy?” She straightens a little, putting the chocolates on her distressed driftwood coffee table.
I think about Lance Bass and how his hand was cupped possessively on her ass in the produce section.
“Soul patch/shell necklace guy?” I know I shouldn’t bring him up, but I can’t help it. I need to know.
Sora’s eyes grow as round as dishes. “Dan? How did you know about him?”
“I saw you two together. At Margo’s.”
Now Sora sits up, back ramrod straight. “What?”
“I saw you—and Dan?—in the produce section. Back around Christmas. You two seemed friendly. I thought…” I drift off.
But she’s leaning ever closer to me now, hunched over her legs. “Wait, you saw me over a month ago and you didn’t say hi?”
And this is why I should just keep my mouth shut. “Well, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure it was you.” Lie. Terrible lie. “And…” I was a chickenshit who didn’t have the courage to say hi. “And … I don’t know, you were in and out. Quickly.”
“I was?”
“Yeah. But that guy. I thought … you could do better.”
“You did?” She falls back into the couch cushions, arms above her head in surrender. “You and me both. Turns out he was married. Lied to me about it. Then I thought I would just go along with it. Be his weeknight mistress or something.” She covers her face with both hands and blows out an exasperated breath. I already had a low opinion of Soul Patch but now it’s even lower. The snake.
“You deserve better than that. Much better. You are no man’s side chick.”
Her eyes grow wide in surprise, as if no man has told her this before.
“So the first time you saw me was with Dan? Not when you gave out free tortes?”
“Yeah.” I’m already in deep, so why not take the plunge the rest of the way down? “You were wearing a red wool coat and knee-high black boots. Red lipstick, too. Looking downright beautiful, actually.”
Sora’s mouth opens ever so slightly in surprise. She studies me. “So, you’re stalking me?” she teases.
I shrug. “Kind of.” I meet her gaze. The wine buzzing in my veins makes me feel bold.
“Sounds like you kind of have a crush on me, Jack Mann.”
Now’s my moment. Now’s the time. I’ve got to tell her.
“Actually, this is going to sound dumb…” I take a deep breath. “I actually had a crush on you in kindergarten.”
“What?” She nudges my hip with her good foot. She’s grinning.
“Yeah, well … I kind of had a crush on you … all through grade school.”
Her grin fades, ever so slightly. “You did?” She shifts and her ice pack falls off her ankle. She doesn’t notice, so I reach over and grab it, placing it back gingerly.
“Yeah.” I stare at the ceiling. This is either going to be the best thing I ever did in my life, or the worst. There’s no in between. “One time, I think it was first grade, or maybe second, you told Boyan Debnar he was a jerk who shouldn’t bully people.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, he was singing that damn Piggy Jack song in the cafeteria line. You told him he was a jerk and to stop it.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“I do. You were the first kid to stick up for me. Maybe the only kid.” I glance at Sora, who looks as if she wants to hug me. “Ever since then, anytime I saw you, it felt like my stomach was full of bees.”
“Is that why you drew one on my yearbook?”
I hadn’t put that together before. “Yeah, probably.”
She laughs but then grows serious. Her brown eyes focus on mine, and for a second, I feel like I can swim in them. “Does it still feel like it’s full of bees?”
“Yes. Big ones. Angry.” Humming loudly in my ears. Or maybe it’s the wine. No, I think, looking at Sora’s amazing brown eyes. It’s Sora. Definitely Sora. “So imagine how I feel when my grade-school crush walks into my grocery store.”
Sora laughs. “Eats all your tortes and then gets horribly embarrassed by her ex-husband and his new girlfriend. And then accuses you of theft. Yeah, I’m sure you were very glad to see me.”
“Actually, that day, I realized…” I take a deep breath. Fine. “It’s not just that I used to have a crush on you. I kind of … well … I still do.”
Now things get serious. Sora stares at me, without blinking. Is she going to tell me to go to hell? Have I overstepped?
But then, she moves slowly over to my side of the couch, crawling, almost like a sleek lioness on the prowl, looking like the sexiest damn predator I’ve ever seen.
“Maybe I have a crush, too,” she tells me, her voice low in her throat. She meets my gaze and then focuses her attention on my lips. And something in the air changes. It feels … more dangerous, suddenly. I can feel her breath on my face, smell her crème brûlée lip gloss.
And then she presses her lips to mine.