You and Me Read online

  "Is this that guy down the hall with the biceps of a Greek god?" she asks, setting the cookie down on the table as though she's too excited to eat. I nod, but narrow my eyes to silently convey I see what she's doing. She smirks. "Oh, he's yummy. Did you call dibs? Because you can't get greedy if you didn't call dibs."

  Suddenly I'm not amused, but before I can say anything, Delilah chimes in thoughtfully, "He's not right for you. He's a fire sign."

  I blink at her. "And how do you even know that?"

  "I can just tell. He gives off intense fire sign vibes. But, he's too wrapped up in his own world, earphones stuck in his ears all the time. Never makes eye contact. He's disturbing his aura, blaring all that angry music. I could hear it in the elevator standing three feet away."

  To Delilah, anything with any hint of tempo is angry music. But I make a mental note, because that's something I could suggest to Jackson next time I see him.

  You're aura's all angry, man. It's the music you listen to disturbing your cellular structure.

  I might even be able to fit a penis reference in there.

  Grace cuts in. "She's saying that you must've made an impression if he finally got his head out of his own ass—"

  "Well, he should've just kept it there," I say. "Where it belongs."

  "That wasn't what I meant," Delilah says. "We only get one egg a month and we've got to be pickier about who can accidentally inseminate it."

  I snort at this, even though I know my sister's serious.

  "Oh, he can inseminate any part of me he wants." Grace grins at her own remark and I throw up my hands to stop them both.

  "Okay, that's enough, you two. No one's calling dibs. No one's getting inseminated."

  I hope.

  Without thinking, I take a bite of the cookie and my eyes go wide.

  "What is this witchcraft?" I ask. "This shit is delicious."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Samantha

  THE BELL OVER THE door jingles at my entrance. My eyes take a second to adjust to the relative dimness of the coffee shop, compared to the bright Saturday glare outside. The moment the door closes behind me, the city's howls of traffic, buses, and people all die away, and I'm immersed in a different world. One you wouldn't expect in the middle of Manhattan.

  The Hideout is a tightly packed space filled with mismatched furniture and odd decor, so overwhelming with its character that I have to scan the room to find my roommates despite the fact there's not many people inside.

  They sit near the back around an old, beaten down coffee table. I wade between furniture and past the faint smell of incense in the air, which is overpowered by the bitter smell of coffee beans. It's no wonder Delilah was drawn to the place, stumbling upon it while walking home one day. I would've passed it without a second glance, thinking it was an antique store instead of a coffee shop.

  Delilah seems right at home, a satisfied smile on her face. Grace, on the other hand, looks at me with murderous eyes that scream, I'm dying inside.

  I settle down onto an armchair in front of them. Delilah hands me a cup of what I assume is coffee. I accept it without question and take a sip. The rich, creamy aroma hits me at the same time as the flavor explodes on my tongue.

  I stifle a sigh.

  "How'd it go?" Delilah asks.

  I left them in a hurry first thing this morning to tend to a delivery.

  "Holy shit, did that baby come out fast," I say, sitting back. "I've never seen anything like it. The woman's uterus is a cannon."

  "Boom. Here's your baby," Grace says.

  "Exactly like that." I lift up the coffee cup in my hand. "This is incredible, by the way."

  "It's the house blend. I'm in love with this place," Delilah says.

  Grace tilts her own cup up to her mouth and mumbles, "If only it didn't smell like a giant foot."

  "It's a barely-there foot smell," I say, and Delilah nods, seeming touched that I'm coming to the shop's defense. "It's more like stale coffee mixed with the slightest essence of feet. Unique and oddly enticing, when you take the time to appreciate it."

  The bell over the front door chimes again and I turn to glance back at it. Jackson steps inside and immediately begins scanning his surroundings as though looking for someone. I turn around again and shrink in my seat.

  "Crap," I say. "It's him. What the hell's he doing here?"

  Delilah looks surprised. Grace hides her suspicious expression behind her coffee again.

  I glare at my friend.

  "Grace." I hiss her name like it's a curse word. "What did you do?"

  She shrugs, failing at her attempt to seem innocent. "I might have mentioned we'd be here. I might have mentioned that you might have mentioned him…a lot…" She mumbles the rest of her words.

  Despite the low hum of chatter from the coffee shop patrons, I manage to zero in on Jackson's footsteps as he approaches.

  Eyes wide, I make a hand motion to Grace and Delilah, silently signaling for them to pick up the conversation as though it never stopped. Delilah opens her mouth but fails to produce sound fast enough.

  Grace tilts her head, missing my signal for a second, before she blurts out, "And that's why I don't shave down there anymore." Jackson clears his throat beside me. Grace looks up, and with the most disingenuous tone of surprise, says, "Oh wow, look who it is."

  I turn, with what I hope is an air of complete casualness.

  "Oh," I say, as though unimpressed by his gorgeous face and the fact that his crotch is at eye-level to me. "Hey, Jackson."

  He gives both Delilah and Grace small nods. Grace can barely contain the smirk creeping across her face. Delilah, on the other hand, eyes Jackson from head to toe in quiet analysis. But Jackson's eyes are already on me.

  "What are you doing here?" I ask.

  "I came to take you to lunch."

  A moment passes as he peers down at me with a glint of amusement in his eyes. He smiles and my resolve begins to thin. I think for a moment and try to keep my face neutral as an idea occurs to me.

  "You won't give up, will you?" I ask.

  "Not until you let me take you on a date."

  "One date and you'll leave me alone?"

  "One date and you won't be able to leave me alone."

  I bite out a laugh, and my face warms under a smile. I hate he can do that, make me laugh when I'm trying not to. Without breaking eye contact, I say, "Do you guys mind?"

  Not missing a beat, Grace says, "Nope."

  Delilah's response drags out a bit more, "I guess not."

  "Lets go," I say to Jackson as I get to my feet. "I have a place in mind."

  It's amusing to see the relieved confusion that comes over his handsome face, his surprise at how easily I gave in.

  The guy really has no idea what I have in store for him.

  We head out on foot, the early summer afternoon conspiring against my efforts to shake off the excited flurries in my belly, the swirls of anticipation I feel whenever I'm around this man. There's a sweetness in the air, a mixture of corner stands and food trucks and other scents of summer just around every corner.

  My stomach grumbles and I want nothing more than to stuff my face with some hearty food, but I'm on a mission and I'm nothing if not committed. I lead him a few blocks down and we come to a stop in front of a small restaurant, sandwiched between a deli and a laundromat.

  It's an inventive vegetarian eatery, serving concoctions that look bizarre and intimidating, even to me. Images of the dishes are proudly displayed on the windows.

  "This is it?" he asks, eyeing the pictures hesitantly.

  "This place? This place is my favorite lunch spot," I lie.

  I wonder if he knows I'm calling his bluff. I wonder just how far he'd go in his insistence to take me on a date.

  As though in answer to my unspoken question, Jackson opens the door and gestures for me to step inside.

  "I'm sure it's fantastic," he says.

  Part of me sinks in disappointment because the hung
er in the pit of my stomach isn't playing along with my ruse. I'm not very adventurous when it comes to food, not in the least. I like to eat simple and clean. Though I've never actually eaten here, my sister has, and she's described the over the top, one-of-a-kind plates in enough detail to make me suspect Jackson will find them crazy.

  We sit by the windows and the hostess takes our drink order and hands us a pair of menus before walking away. Jackson's face falls slightly when he eyes the menu, as though he had been holding out hope that there would be something he would like. He catches himself and smooths his expression into polite surprise. I'm not sure if he means to look comical or not, but he does. There's a wild laugh building in me at the fact that he hasn't commented on my choice of restaurant. As if a menu consisting solely of items along the lines of radish spaghetti and caramelized fennel is something he sees all the time.

  There's undeniable humor punctuating the silence between us as we try to decide what to order. Everything on the menu is a bizarre twist on the traditional vegetable. There's a grilled onion salad served with fermented black bean dressing. A fried broccoli dish with smoked cabbage. Mushrooms with maple butter. Lettuce wrapped Brussel sprouts. These are the sort of dishes the average person would only consume for a shot at winning a large sum of cash on a national television show. I've been a vegetarian most of my life and I've never heard of vegetables served like this.

  The waitress comes up to take our order, a beady eyed girl who can't be older than eighteen. Her smile seems to widen when she looks at Jackson, and I don't miss the way her gaze drags down his body like she'd like nothing more than to set him on the table and have him for lunch. I'm not prepared for the white streak of possessiveness that thunders through me. He might not be mine, but this girl doesn't know that.

  Jackson clears his throat, a sly smile in his eyes. "Any recommendations?"

  I bite my lip, unprepared. "Yeah…" Tucking my hair behind my ears, I search the menu adamantly as though looking for something I know is there. Kale…there has to be something with kale here. I'm not a fan of kale. I've always managed a vegetarian lifestyle just fine without it.

  "Oh, here it is. My favorite, kale soup. So, so good."

  Jackson eyes me with only a hint of sarcasm, then looks at the waitress, and says, "Sounds like we'll have two kale soups."

  "I can order for myself," I say, and the waitress, who was already turning to leave, swings back around to face us.

  Indignantly, I scan the menu, feeling the pressure of both pairs of eyes on me, and not being able to choose from the large array of shit I wouldn't want to eat, anyway. Finally, I set down the menu and say, "I'll have the kale soup, thanks."

  Jackson laughs quietly.

  "Oh, you think this is funny? Just wait until your soup comes."

  He crosses his arms, the long sleeved shirt he's wearing tugging around his biceps. And as he sits back, his gaze travels over me, bathing me in blue hues that make my head swim.

  "Why are we here?" he asks.

  "You wanted lunch. This…this is my favorite—" I falter at something in his eyes, a whisper of gotcha.

  "Cut the bullshit, Samantha."

  My stomach growls, angry and loud, as if it can no longer stand to be ignored. This whole thing was me calling Jackson's bluff, and now? It looks like I've called my own bluff, too.

  "You nearly gagged when ordering your favorite soup," he says, using air quotes around the word 'favorite'. "I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that you've never eaten here and that you don't even like kale. Because who the hell likes kale? Tell me, why are we really here?"

  I look over to the kitchen doors where our waitress disappeared, the same doors she'll soon reemerge from carrying two bowls of what might as well be stewed grass.

  Hunger, it seems, is my kryptonite. I need some food in my mouth before I pass out. Or worse, fold in. But I don't fold. Not ever.

  "We're here because you need to know what you're getting into if you want to date a vegan witch."

  "Are you vegan," he asks.

  "No. I'm vegetarian. I'm sure it makes little difference to you."

  "I get it," he says. "You're upset about what I said. I honestly didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

  "But you meant what you said."

  "What?"

  "Admit it. You think holistic medicine is a joke."

  "What do you want me to say, Samantha? That I don't think rubbing leaves on your face is going to cure skin cancer? Or swallowing some garlic will shrink a tumor? Well, yeah I did mean what I said. I'm not into all that holistic nonsense. I've had patients who made their diseases worse by prolonging the start of treatment in attempts to cure themselves. All I know is what I've been taught, what I've seen with my own eyes."

  "It's so much easier to cut people open the first chance you get. But not before pumping them full of drugs. All of that should be an absolute last resort."

  "I disagree."

  "Then you must agree that we're not compatible," I say, cool as a cucumber.

  Fundamental and irreconcilable differences that led to the demise of our almost, could've been, wedding. The one I planned entirely in my head, minutes into our initial meeting. There are no refunds for imaginary weddings. And I've gone way over budget.

  His hesitation comes in the form of a small exhale. "Look, look at my dimples. Don't they make up for this small difference? Not even a little bit?"

  His smile is genuine and charming, and I nearly liquefy in front of the sexy sonofabitch. I'm not at all in control of the way I smile back. Because, damn him, he can obliterate an ovary with a flash of those pearly whites. And those dimples? They make it hard to dislike him. Really, really hard. No. Not hard, impossible.

  But there's something I need him to understand, maybe then he can begin to glimpse why this is more than just a matter of setting aside my pride.

  "My ex was a pediatric surgeon," I say. "He sat across from me every day with the same look of thinly veiled tolerance that you have right now. He belittled my career path, on nearly a daily basis. Sometimes accidentally, sometimes on purpose. Sometimes I hated him, if I'm being honest. Most of the time, I couldn't stand his elitist attitude, which—no offense—I'm starting to think is a trademark of surgeons. It ended pretty badly. So, you can understand why I'm not exactly thrilled to have a repeat of the whole situation. Considering the fact that you managed to light a warning flare ten minutes into us meeting, why shouldn't this disagreement be a deal breaker?"

  "Was a surgeon?" he asks, eyebrow perking up. "Did you kill him or something? Is that why you're referring to him as if he died?"

  "When you shut someone out of your life, sometimes it's easier to pretend they're dead. Easier in relation to actually making them dead, I guess."

  "I was right about you all along, freckles. Or should I say, murderess?"

  I cross my arms over my chest, not liking his attempt to deflect the entire situation. He's all but dismissed everything I've told him, proving that he doesn't take any of it seriously. Proving that he doesn't take me seriously.

  "I'm glad you find this all so hilarious."

  The trace of amusement in his pale blues wanes. He fixes me with a steely gaze, analytical and almost surgical.

  "I can't seem to keep my foot out of my mouth with you," he says. "I was supposed to buy you lunch, make you laugh, and you were supposed to decide you wanted to sleep with me."

  "I think I've successfully proven this isn't going anywhere near your bed."

  "Kale soup?" the server asks, appearing out of nowhere to set down bowls in front of each of us.

  "We'll take the check," I say.

  "Just like that?" Jackson asks, eyes on me.

  I bite my lip and shrug my shoulders in a silent, 'Just like that.'

  Jackson doesn't let me pay for our non-date, and then we get up to go our separate ways. Except we don't. We're trapped in the uncomfortable aftermath of cool goodbyes that transform into a silent walk in the same direction. I
watch my handsome neighbor walk past me to reach his own apartment door, and my stomach aches with something that I'm sure has nothing to do with hunger anymore. In the light of day, it all feels childish now. My desire to scare him off. The game I've won.

  Because I did win.

  I got exactly what I wanted and, at the same time, I got none of it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Samantha

  FRANTIC POUNDING AT MY door makes me sit upright. I look around, confused by the blue glow of the television and the otherwise empty living room.

  Another round of incessant knocking reminds me of what woke me in the first place. I drag myself up off the couch and rush to the door. Peering through the peephole, I see Heath standing out in the hall, glancing at his watch. He tentatively reaches for the doorbell, seemingly unsure if he should press it, but I manage to yank the door open before he has a chance.

  He freezes and pulls back from the buzzer, visibly relieved to see me. I'm not sure what's more alarming, the fact that Heath is knocking at my door at four in the morning, or that he's fully dressed, grasping the handle of a small suitcase.

  "Hey, sorry to bother you," he says, not sounding very sorry. "My brother's dying and I have to be at the airport in thirty minutes."

  Groggy from sleep, I squint, his words barely registering. "You need a ride to the airport?"

  He smiles. "That's sweet. But no, I have a cab waiting. My issue is the first part of my statement. The part about my brother dying."

  I shake my head, still not understanding him. "What? Your brother's what?"

  He hands me a key. "Look, you've got a duty to Mother Earth or whatever to tend to the sick, right? Go deal with him because I'm pretty sure I'll be coming back to a shriveled up corpse if I just leave him alone like that."

  "But wait—"

  "Great, thanks," he says. And with the key securely in my hand, Heath heads down the hall without so much as a glance back.

  I'm not sure how long I stand frozen, staring after him, but it's probably way longer than I should considering Jackson is dying.