Page 5 of Fun Together (Make Romance #1)

Faye

Oh, and telling Andrew that of course ten o’clock on a Saturday morning is a perfectly fine time to swing by.

I force myself to sit up, and then force myself to change clothes and put on a little makeup before he arrives. I’m nervous about seeing him again, and what memories might stir up because of it.

Andrew and I met our junior year in an Intro to Statistics class.

It was the first day of spring semester and I was uncharacteristically late—thanks to covering someone’s shift at my hostess job the night before. I barely woke up in time to throw on a pair of sweatpants and rush out the door.

I spotted a single seat available on the front row of the auditorium, which I hated because I preferred to sit in the middle with a full wall of students surrounding me.

After wrangling out of my puffy winter coat while questioning my sanity for signing up for an eight a.m. class, I wedged myself in between a pale, dark-haired guy with glasses and a middle-aged woman knitting a chunky green scarf.

I took out my notebook and wrote the date at the top of the page.

“Do you need to borrow a pencil?”

It was the glasses guy.

“I’m sorry?”

He nodded toward the ballpoint pen poised in my hand and held his own pencil up in the air. It was a fancy silver mechanical one that probably cost more than I made in tips the night before. “Pretty brave to use a pen in this class.”

“Why do you say that?” I wasn’t too concerned because the first day of class was always general stuff, and I was lucky I had anything to write with at all. Did he think we were going to be diving into equations right away?

“What if you make a mistake?”

That was why I hated sitting in the front, because you were inevitably next to someone who probably chose to sit in the front and had weirdly strong opinions on the right and wrong writing implements to use.

I wanted to insinuate that it wasn’t any of his business what I was writing with, but there wasn’t any malice coming from his heavily-browed, dark eyes.

I couldn’t see much emotion at all, as if he were just stating a known fact that using a pen in a Stats class was entirely incorrect.

“I’ll just have to be extra careful, I guess.”

He nodded at this and turned back to look at his own notebook, almost like he regretted saying anything about it. I found myself noticing that he was attractive in the way a guy can be when they’re sort of nerdy and likely missed the memo that they’re actually hot.

At the end of class, he set his pencil down on top of my desk. “Just in case you want to be less careful,” he said, with a ghost of a smile. I’d later learn that this barely-there quirk of his lips was the equivalent to him doing a mating dance right there in SAS Hall.

We sat together the rest of the semester, and I didn’t even care that we were so close to the front that I could see the spit flying from the professor’s mouth as he droned on about standard deviation.

Andrew asked me out on our first date the day after finals. I thought he’d never do it.

He asked me to marry him six years later. I wished he’d never done that.

He hasn’t seen my new place yet, and knowing he’ll be here any minute, I do a quick scan of the space.

The apartments were built in the 1930s, with all the quirks that come with a building that’s seen so many years.

The windows are painted shut, but they have their original wavy glass.

None of the kitchen cabinets close all the way.

And the thing that made me fall in love as soon as I saw it, the bathroom tile is seafoam green.

This morning, with Rett’s words echoing in my head about my messy apartment, I spent some time cleaning up.

But there are some things I can’t pick up because there’s nowhere for them to go.

I have a huge stack of moving boxes still sitting in my entry way that he’ll for sure notice.

We got some of them from the liquor store, so I like to pretend I’m gearing up for a party and not putting off the prospect of unpacking stuff I don’t have a place for yet.

While I wait for him, I peek inside the Jim Beam box on top of the stack.

I see a sweatshirt I bought on a trip we took to Colorado a couple of years ago, a half-empty bottle of perfume, an old eyeshadow palette, and a phone charger.

The eyeshadow must have cracked because there’s shimmery bronze powder all over everything.

A knock at the door interrupts my rummaging.

For some reason, I have a thought that I won’t recognize him when I see him.

Maybe because eight months has felt like years.

But when he steps inside, I see that he’s the same Andrew.

He’s the poster boy for perfect posture and practiced movements.

I’ve never seen the man with so much as a thread hanging from his shirtsleeve.

“Hey,” he says, shutting the door behind him.

“Hey! How are you?” This comes out way too bright because I’m so nervous.

“I’m good.” He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “How was your week?”

“It was okay. Nothing crazy.”

He looks around and I watch his eyes snag on all the things I love about the only place I’ve ever been able to call my own. The quirks that I know he dislikes on sight because his interior design tastes are more “Scandinavian minimalism” and less, “Did that come from the set of The Twilight Zone ?”

Somewhere in these unpacked boxes is a framed poster of a lipstick ad from the 1960s that I never had a spot for in his apartment.

“I could always see you living somewhere that might be haunted,” he jokes with his polite smile. While he may not like something, he’d never let you know it.

I could take offense at this comment, and to some it might come across as judgmental. But he doesn’t mean any offense. I play if off with a joke, too. “Yeah, the rental agreement had a paranormal activity clause.”

At this, he meets my eyes for the first time since setting foot inside and things almost feel normal again.

But that gaze, hard as granite, has always been a barrier to his thoughts.

You’ll get glimpses here and there, though.

Like, when you say something interesting, he squints just a little.

When he’s annoyed, he blinks super slow.

I do know what I’m thinking, seeing him again, even if the conversation feels forced. And I can’t help but want him to feel it too, as unfair as it is for me to wish for it. We were a part of each other’s lives for so long, and even though I broke his heart, I have a selfish thought.

I miss my friend, and I want him to miss me too. But can I really ask for that?

He’s the first to look away as a silence descends that I’m able to stand for about three seconds. “So how is work?” I ask.

He adjusts his glasses. “Good, I got a promotion last month. It’s more responsibility, but it’s going well so far.” I don’t think I ever fully grasped what he does for a living, but he’s some type of risk assessment analyst for the city.

“Wow, that’s great. I know you were looking for something higher-level.”

He nods his head, chewing on the inside of his cheek. That’s another Andrew tell. He’s also nervous. “How’s work going for you? Alexis still as great as ever?”

“She might be worse,” I say, willing myself not to look over at the couch where I shoved the vibrator under a couch cushion.

I really don’t want to bring any thoughts of Eli up while I’m standing in front of Andrew, but I can’t help but be curious as to why he didn’t tell me Eli was back.

“Speaking of work, I saw Eli at the office yesterday. I had no idea he was back and working there now.”

“Didn’t I tell you?”

I shake my head.

“Sorry, I thought I mentioned it.” Did he purposely not mention it? Have I been forcing this “staying friends” thing? Come to think of it, I am always the one to text him first. He always texts back, but am I bothering him?

“Have you two hung out a lot since he’s been back?”

He shrugs. “A few times. We both have a lot going on and I’ve been gearing up for my trip.”

“Speaking of,”—I roll his suitcase around from behind my couch—“it’s all yours.”

“Thanks. Sorry if you were still needing it.”

“No, I’m sorry. I should have gotten it back to you months ago.”

As he pulls it closer to him, I notice that it still has the airline tag from a trip we took to Chicago last March because the flight was so cheap. A trip that ended with us not being an “us” anymore.

Pretty sure he notices it, too.

“You have any plans coming up or been anywhere recently?” he asks, chewing some more on his cheek. He’s going to break skin soon. I can’t tell if he’s curious or just trying to make small talk.

“No. Not really.” I cross my arms, wishing I could burrow inside that glitter-covered sweatshirt right now. It’s all catching up to me now.

Why don’t I have plans?

Why am I not having fun?

Why couldn’t I just say yes?

I lied about never being able to get a read on those mysterious eyes of his.

The night I told him I wasn’t going to marry him, I watched them fill with the dawning realization that he’d done something he avoided at all costs.

Something so deeply instilled in him that he couldn’t help but worry about keeping my statistics notes pristine the first day I met him.

He’d made a mistake.

It wasn’t the first time I’d felt like a mistake to someone, but I needed it to be my last.

“Well. . .” He rolls the suitcase back and forth a few times. “I should probably get going.”

I wonder if he resents me. If, when he sees my texts appear on his phone with some stupid reference to our shared past, he wishes I’d just leave him alone.

Was he driving over here this morning telling himself this is the last thing he must do, the last item he needs to check off before he can be done with me?

I spent most of my late teen years watching my mom’s exes leave with the last of their belongings. She’d sigh and light her cigarette, not even bothering to watch them pull out of the driveway. I’d always watch them, though. And even then, I kind of understood they were better off leaving.

I need to let him go.

I give him a strained smile. “Have fun in Amsterdam and be sure to eat a stroopwafel for me.”

He nods. “I will.” And with an awkward wave, he’s gone.

The click of the lock echoes through my apartment. Now the boxes filling my hallway feel less like a task I’ve been too lazy to complete and more like a reminder of the self-imposed pause I’ve put on my life.

Captain Morgan mocks me from his perch, so sure of himself and his place. You’ll never unpack me , he sneers and gestures to my pathetic lack of furniture. You have no storage options .

I turn him around so he’s facing the wall.

I dig through the Grey Goose box until I find the hammer and nails my grandpa gave me when I first moved to Raleigh for school.

“Make sure you find a stud first,” he’d said. “You don’t want a paintin’ to come crashing down on your head in the middle of the night. See this knot?” He pointed to a spot just above his brow. “The dogs decided to play poker on my forehead.”

I smile at the memory.

I find the lipstick ad in another box and hang it prominently by the front door. Now, this blonde model with beehive hair and bubblegum pink lips will greet me every day when I get home. She looks good, like she belongs there.

And I belong here, too.