I just couldn’t stay away. But I can’t bring myself to call him. Again, high school.
The front windows of Josh’s house are dark. I can see one light, which I know is his study, still glowing out a side window of the first floor. I also know that’s on a timer and doesn’t mean he’s home. The garage door is closed, so I know his Volvo might be inside. Or it might not be. And if he’s not here, where is he?
I edge past number 6, driving toward the end of Bexter Drive. I’m still in my Elsa outfit and have a fleeting fantasy of knocking on Josh’s door to see if he’ll recognize me. He will, of course, and he’ll laugh, and I’ll laugh, and Penny will come running downstairs, and we’ll all laugh. And then everything will be fine again.
Back to reality. Penny is with her mother. Two days ago, Josh stomped out of my apartment. I didn’t try hard enough to stop him. And now I miss him. I don’t need him, I insist to myself. I’m fine on my own. But that doesn’t mean I can’t miss him.
I yank my steering wheel toward Beacon Hill and home.
And when I get there, I see that Josh’s car is parked in front of my house. I blink in confusion, then blink again, my brain trying to register this unpredictable occurrence. While I was in front of Josh’s house, he was in front of mine.
I hope it’s because he misses me, too. I hope he’s not here to pick up his toothbrush.
My assigned parking space is in the back, in the lot behind my building, but I slide my Jeep in behind his car. My headlights illuminate his unmistakable shape in the front seat, his arms crossed over the steering wheel. He sits up as my lights hit him. Turns around. And opens his door.
We connect on the deserted street, hands searching, lips meeting, devouring each other, remembering. My arms wrap around his neck, his hands move down my back. It’s not a toothbrush that he wants. We’re ignoring the spotlighting streetlights, ignoring any nosy neighbors watching from their brownstone windows, ignoring the necessity of breathing.
“How did you know?” I finally tilt my head back, not letting go, not taking my eyes from him as I try to make sense of this. “When I would be home?”
“I would have waited. As long as it took,” he whispers, eyes closed, and reaches up to touch my hair. He opens his eyes, smiling, and then his expression changes. He gently pushes me arm’s length away, keeping his hands on my shoulders.
“My, my, Ms. McNally,” he says. He looks me up and down. Then up again. “I fear I must inform you the summer of peace and love is long over. And I must say, I’m not sure how your fans will handle the reporter as hippie look.”
“It’s a long story,” I say, tucking my arm through his. I can feel the softness of his black sweater against my cheek as I curl closer to him. “How about if I tell you the whole thing-upstairs?”
But once we get inside, I can’t ignore the flashing light on the message machine. Every muscle in my body longs for Josh. Every scintilla of my intellect understands that it won’t matter if I wait until tomorrow. That if there are messages still waiting, unlistened to at this time of night, it can’t possibly make a difference if they wait a few hours longer.
But as I told Mom when she caught me, nine years old, reading the last chapter of my Nancy Drew first: I hafta know. And now, thirty-seven years later, thirty-eight, shouldn’t Josh understand that, too? I’m a reporter. Working on a big story.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” I say. My arm is still linked through his as we stand in my entryway. I hold tighter as we both stare at the blinking light on the living room phone. Botox is winding her way through our legs, meowing a combination welcome and complaint. Josh is silent, ignoring both of us. I can feel his body stiffen.
“Why don’t you open a bottle of wine for us?” I continue. “And I’ll just see who it is.” It might be news about Katie Harkins. Franklin might have checked our outside line and might have news from Sally.
“It’s just a message from me, sweetheart,” Josh interrupts. I can see the beginnings of a frown on his face. “I called you. I left a message, wondering where you were. I realized that I can’t remember the last time I didn’t know where you were. So. It’s me.”
I can’t stop myself. “Two seconds,” I say, moving toward the phone. “Get the wine from the fridge and I’ll meet you on the couch.”
Josh is still standing where I left him as I turn to pick up the receiver and begin punching in the number to retrieve the messages. “Two seconds,” I say again.
I feel Josh standing next to me. He does not have a bottle of wine.
The phone voice begins its techno-prompts in my ear. “To enter your mailbox, press…”
“I think we need to talk, Charlie,” Josh says, at the same time. He puts his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “Why is it that you’re so compelled…”
“Please enter your code, followed by the pound sign…”
“It’s just, well, this story we’re working on, I’ll tell you all about it. It’s why I’m wearing this outfit, you know? And yesterday the police came, they were investigating.” I’m talking to Josh and entering my code at the same time.
“You have, two new messages and…”
“The police?” Josh says. “So you finally did report that phone call?”
I interrupt the prompt, pushing more numbers to retrieve my new messages. I know I don’t have any saved ones. “Well, no,” I say, “the police were here because…”
“First new message, received today at 7:14 p.m.” There’s a pause as the message loops up from the digital recorder.
“That’s me,” Josh says. “As I told you.” He reaches over and hits the orange button to activate the speaker phone.
“Hello, Charlie.” Now we can both hear Josh’s tinny voice. It’s quiet, subdued. “I tried to call you at the station, but you’re not there, either.” There’s a pause, and we hear Josh sigh. “Do you think we should talk? I’ll try you later.”
“I told you,” he says. “Now, can we please sit down?”
“Second new message, received today at 9:56 p.m.” The computer voice says. The speaker phone is still on.
There’s a beat. Then clicking noises. The same ones I heard in that first phone call, although Josh doesn’t know that. Then whoever it is hangs up. The silence echoes through the living room.
“Ah, wrong number,” I say. I’m desperate to lighten the mood. Somehow this night is suddenly fragile and suddenly all the stakes seem high. Maybe if I ignore it, it’ll go away. Right. That always works. “Oh, well, I guess that’s the good news, right? Let’s get that wine. And I’ll fill you in on my latest adventures.” I turn to Josh, my expression expectant and enthusiastic.
No answer.
“Josh?” I persist. “It’s my job. You know? If a student called you, or if there were some emergency at Bexter, you’d have to be available, right? So it’s the same.”
Surprising me, Josh puts his arm around me, and shepherds me toward the couch. Botox bounces up beside us, and curls up on my lap. Maybe this will all work out.
Josh takes my hand, examining my fingers. “You know, Charlie,” he says. “There’s a pattern here. Isn’t there?”
I don’t answer, because I can’t come up with a good one.
He sighs. “And the pattern is, when you have a choice, you choose your work.”