The Best Thing - Mariana Zapata Page 0,22

at his neck were straining to what looked like anguish flicking within his eyes, said he was being genuine. He genuinely thought he wanted to talk to me. He wanted to tell me whatever it was that he felt he needed to say.

He believed his words.

But just because he believed them didn’t mean that I did. Because I didn’t. He’d had his chance. Chances. I had given him more than enough time to do something as simple as email or text me back, and he hadn’t. Sure I blocked his number, blocked him on every social media website possible, but I hadn’t blocked his emails… and they still hadn’t shown up.

“I don’t care about why or when or how anymore, Jonah. What I want is to know what you’re doing here.”

“I’m here to talk to you.” He set that big hand back on the top of my desk, just inches away from my keyboard. “Give me a chance to explain. Please.”

What was it that he wanted to explain? Why he had disappeared? Why he hadn’t called me back? Why he hadn’t wanted to be part of… my life? Why he’d decided to come back now?

Did he think I was a fucking mind reader? Because I wasn’t. Of course I wasn’t.

His fingers slid half an inch closer, his fingertips touching the edge of my keyboard. I couldn’t help but take in those endless, brown fingers with their neat, short nails, and the scarred and forever slightly swollen knuckles. He slid it even closer to me. “I know I’ve made a mess of things, but I want to explain—”

I tore my eyes away from his fingers. “There are a lot of things I want that I know I’m never going to get. That’s how things work sometimes.” I shoved my chair forward even though I was already as close to my desk as I could get. “I have a phone call I need to take in a minute, so…” I glanced toward the door to give him a clue. Get the fuck out.

Jonah opened his mouth just as the phone literally started to ring—I didn’t know who was calling, but whoever it was was my new favorite person—and then shut it. A breath later, he got to his feet, bringing him up, up, up so that he towered over my desk. And then he irritated me even more with his next words.

“This conversation isn’t over, Lenny.”

And before I could tell him that it sure as hell was—at least until he told me what the fuck it was that he wanted—he was gone.

But I hadn’t missed the expression on his face or the tension in his shoulders as he walked out.

I couldn’t stand him. I couldn’t fucking stand him, I thought as I picked up the ringing office phone and brought it to my ear. “This is Lenny.”

“This call is from the IRS. Don’t hang up—”

I rolled my eyes and hung up, still feeling more than a little grateful. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to be ready to deal with him… but I wanted to know what was going on. I wanted to know what he was doing and what he was planning on doing.

What I did know right then, without looking at the clock, was that there was a conversation I desperately needed to have. One of the most important conversations of my life. Even if I was dreading it more than I had ever dreaded anything.

Then, after that talk, I really did need to get an answer from Jonah the Jackass about what the fuck he was doing.

I eyed the clock on my computer for a second and got to my feet. I couldn’t put it off anymore. Now or never.

Fucking shit.

Grabbing my phone off the top of the desk, I dialed the number from memory as I headed around my desk and picked up my backpack from where I left it leaning against the coat rack that was older than I was. I could do this. The phone rang three times before the man on the other end picked up.

“Want to meet up for lunch again, child of the corn?”

“Hey, Grandpa. Yeah.” I pulled my keys out of the backpack pocket and headed out of the office, wiggling a finger at the people standing at the edges of the mats while they waited for their turn to do whatever it was they were training. “I’d rather come home for lunch though. Do you want something specific?”

He made a funny

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