Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating - Christina Lauren Page 0,16
hum inside my breastbone: I’m a satellite that’s found its safe-space beacon.
A few days after our friend-date, I ambush Josh at work to take him on an ice cream break. Partly it’s because deep down I really want to have ice cream for lunch every day this summer, but partly, too, it’s the memory of Josh’s expression while he was reading the texts from Tabby. He looked like he’d been kicked. I’m still waiting for him to update me, to tell me what happened with her, but despite the display of emotion he shared with me at my place, he’s gone back to his even-keeled, dry-humored self.
I’m afraid to tell Emily what the text said because I get the distinct impression she does not like Mistress Tabitha, and I also sense that the last thing Josh needs is an opinionated sister telling him how to feel about this. I’m just going to have to woman up and ask him about it myself.
“So.” I smile over my cone at him.
He knows exactly what’s coming and just stares at me flatly.
I must be pretty easy to read because it feels like Josh is never surprised by anything I say. “Do you love or hate the way I’ve already insinuated myself into your life?”
He takes a bite of his mint chip and swallows. “I remain undecided.”
“And yet you’re here.” I sweep my hand over the outdoor table, gesturing to the beauty before us: his little kid-size cup and my enormous, dripping two-scoop cone. “Enjoying a magnificent break from work.”
Josh arches an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t turn down ice cream.”
I acknowledge this with a sage nod. “Well, regardless, Jimin, I like you.”
“I know you do.”
“And as someone you would never date, but who will soon be your best friend, I can say with no ulterior motive that I don’t like that you’re in a relationship with a potentially treasonous skank.”
His eyes go wide. “Wow. Let’s jump right in.”
“Ha!” I smack my thigh. “So that came out a little balder than intended. What I meant to say”—I clear my throat delicately—“is have you talked to Tabby since Sunday?”
“We’ve been playing phone tag.” He gives me a wary look before dropping his attention to his cup again, scraping around the edge. “And yes, I realize that seems odd given that we’re in the same time zone. She’s avoiding this conversation. Maybe I am, too.”
Wait. It’s been five days since that weird text came in, and they haven’t even spoken to each other? I would feel like a grenade with the pin pulled free. Granted, I probably tend to overprocess things rather than under-, but to be in a relationship and wondering whether infidelity is happening and not need to know ASAP?
“Are you both dead inside?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “We might be.”
“Why don’t you go to L.A. and do this in person?”
He looks up at me, dropping the tiny spoon into his empty cup. “So here’s where I keep getting stuck. She’s not moving back. I get that now. So, if we work through this, either I move to L.A.—”
“Gross.” I scrunch my nose.
“Exactly, or she and I . . . what? Have a long-distance relationship forever?”
“If you go that direction you are going to get tennis elbow because that is a lot of phone sex.” I lick a drip of chocolate from my cone and as an afterthought add, “Good thing you’re a physical therapist.”
Josh gazes at me impassively.
“Maybe she could get a job somewhere more appealing to both of you—”
He shakes his head. “I have an established practice here, Haze.”
“Or,” I continue, feeling the warm glow fill me when I realize he’s shortened my name out of familiarity, “she could decide L.A. isn’t for her. Geography is just space; you can’t let that come between you if it’s good.”
Josh eyes me, unblinking. “I thought you didn’t want me to be with a ‘treasonous skank’?”
“Of course I don’t. But do we actually know whether she’s treasonous?” I take a long lick of my ice cream. “You haven’t talked to her.”
He grumbles something and stands to throw his cup away in a nearby trash bin. “I need to get back to work.”
Hefting up my cone I stand, following him down the block. He’s walking back all stiff and soldierly, and I have to jog to keep up. The top scoop of my ice cream slides off and lands on the sidewalk with a sorrowful splat. I stare at it, forlorn.