“You’re looking better,” May says as she enters our shared office.
“I’m feeling better, thank you,” I reply, not missing a stitch. I’ve had a long weekend to consider all Jake told me about his situation—a crime he didn’t commit.
“Did you talk to Jake?” May asks, and I settle my needles for a second. Shaking my head feels like admitting I’m a coward. I just don’t know what to say to him.
Silence falls in our office, and I resume knitting. Knit two purl two. Suddenly, the clacking of my knitting needles sounds too loud, and I glance over at May, blindly working the yarn.
“What is it, chickie?” My younger counterpart is staring at me.
“He rocked your bedsheets.”
“I never said he rocked my bedsheets,” I scoff, fighting the sheepish grin that comes with instant images of Jake and me in my bed. There was that time he loosely tied my wrists and then he . . . I bite my lip and glance up at May. “It was a fire pole.”
“Ri-ta!” My name screeches through the office. “You skipped a few details.”
I laugh, not willing to share more. “I’m just trying to keep things in perspective. It was only lust. Good lust at that, but nothing more.” However, my heart drops to my belly with the thought. Was it really that simple? Was sex all we had? It wasn’t. We laughed. We’d argue a little. We’d kiss a lot. I don’t think I’ve smiled as much in years as I had in a week with Jake. It felt . . . good.
“I don’t believe you.” May’s voice softens, her eyes narrowing in on me, and I stop my knitting and drop my feet from the corner of my desk to face her better.
“What’s to believe?”
“I’ve worked across from you for over five years, lady. Nothing you do is off the cuff other than your remarks. You dive in with intention and purpose to everything, and I don’t think Jake Drummond was any different. He means something to you.”
“You told me he was my rebound man.”
“I never said that.” May’s voice rises. “I said I didn’t think he was a rebound. You bounced a long time ago. This is more.” Her eyes drop to the sweater in my hands, and her breath catches. “Is that for him?”
“Maybe. He said purple is his favorite color.” At least, it’s his favorite color on me. I fight the blush on my cheeks at the recall of all the times Jake commented on my purple undergarments.
“You can’t knit him a sweater. He’ll break up with you.”
“We already broke up,” I remind her, swallowing back the lump in my throat. I’ve been telling myself all weekend it was for the best. I can’t be with him. Because of Ian.
“You can’t knit him a sweater without a ring.”
I tip my head to lower my glasses and peer over them at my dear young friend. “What?”
“You know the rule. You can’t knit your boyfriend a sweater. Knit him anything else but not a sweater. When you get a ring, then you can knit him a sweater.”
“Boyfriend? Ring?” I scoff. “I’m a little old for a boyfriend, and no one is talking rings. Besides, we are not together.”
My attention returns to knitting this beautiful purple yarn into a sweater, but May has stood from her desk and rounded to mine.
“Rita Kaplan, I forbid you to give that man a sweater. He is your boyfriend or boy toy or man machine or whatever you want to call him, and I will not let you ruin your love life by giving him a sweater.”
She holds out her hand like a mother demanding the cookies stolen from the jar before dinner.
“You are being ridiculous.”
“And so are you. You like this guy. Let it happen.” Her voice softens. “There’s nothing wrong with falling in love again.”
My sweet chickie had her heart broken once upon a time and then found love in her beau, Alec. This isn’t the same thing. Jake and I were not in love. I could easily have fallen for him, but I wasn’t convinced I could love someone again. I couldn’t risk the shattering of my heart again, and it had shattered when I learned the truth about Jake. It isn’t memories of Ian breaking me but the trust I had in Jake. The belief he couldn’t do what he’d been accused of doing. Nothing made sense. He was a good man.