Chapter Two
Jake
Ishake hands and smile easily and nod along as all of us promise something about lunch or happy hour. Any excuse to write this kind of thing off is welcome after we’ve spent all day in a boardroom, and I agree with our younger execs that at least some of this could’ve been an email. Actually, I believe it wholeheartedly, which is why I’m able to work from home fifteen to twenty hours a week. I’ve wielded technology wisely after a few decades of learning how often anyone needs to see my face.
Of course, sometimes more important people want us to seetheirfaces, and it’s why I’ve been at the hospital since 7:30 this morning, fueled by unusually good coffee, overpriced platters of snacks, and a handful of well-timed texts from my daughter.
It’s ten hours later now, and when I’ve stepped away from the last goodbye, I only stop by my office long enough to grab my bag and make sure nobody is waiting for me there, grateful whenI’m met with a single wave. The familiar rattle of the elevator carries me to the lobby, and I loosen my tie on the way, my shirt untucked and cuffs unbuttoned by the time I’ve reached the parking garage. I roll my sleeves before I start the car, and I breathe, already so much closer to home.
I love my job and the good I do at the hospital. I love wearing my perfectly tailored clothes while doing it.
I love when I can leave it all behind.
Traffic is expectedly awful at this hour, but I lose myself in a playlist full of the bluesy country that will pull the tension from my shoulders, and the thought I spare for my dinner plans does the same. A moment later, I remember the wine I have waiting for me, and it brings an actual smile to my face. I’ll need to call Lucy to thank her—for the bottles she sent and for keeping me company throughout today’s meetings—and with nothing else planned for tonight, I’ve got the time to do it.
After I’ve wound my way through the hills that lead me home, I pull into my garage and let the automatic door slowly shutter behind me. Leaving my car is the obvious next step, though I’m loath to walk away from the music. I remedy the silence as soon as I can after I’ve slipped into the house and left my suede messenger bag on the desk in my office, quickly reaching for the sound system we’d had installed years ago. It’s gentle when it carries a familiar rhythm through nearly every room of my home, and I’m not interested in being any more disruptive as I climb up the staircase, shedding more professional pieces of myself as I go.
My shirt is fully unbuttoned by the time I get to my bedroom,my tie in hand. Everything else gets discarded neatly, but with little thought, and I throw a tank top and sweatpants on until I can decide what I’ll be up to after dinner. Barefoot and comfortable, I jog back down to the kitchen and open a merlot to breathe before I gather everything I’ll need for the next hour or so. The music remains perfect, and I hum along with it as I move from one side of the island to the other, a hint of melancholy striking only when there’s nobody to steal a cherry tomato or five.
As has been true for a while, everything makes it into the dish just fine.
It’s all incredible, though—the effort entirely worth it. This tomato pesto rigatoni has been a favorite for a while, and the fresh basil and mozzarella I add at the very end are guaranteed to make it even better. My stomach growls, and I nearly chuckle, hungry for a while and so close to finally sating it, a promise made out loud. Then I finally pour myself a glass of wine and take my plate to the dining room table. Like so many other things in the house, it’s positioned so I can see outside, a wall of windows facing the private backyard that can serve as a playground or sanctuary, depending on the occasion.
Somewhere between my second bite and a third, I pick up my phone, dinner etiquette lax when I’m all alone, and I find a text from Beau waiting for me there.
Darren says you haven’t been here in two weeks. Someone better looking than me taking up all your free time?
He’s at Trailhead, then. I’d ask if Adrian’s with him, but of course he is, and it doesn’t matter to me tonight. I hope they havefun.
Nobody is better looking than you. And I’ve been busy with work, but I’ll be there tomorrow night.
Guess I've gotta get smart before I can hang out with you again
I’ll answer the questions, you rub my shoulders.
He’s a massage therapist, and it feels like a reasonable request. It might’ve been a reasonable request regardless, Beau never shying away from physical affection.
That damn leather jacket is always in my way
Are you that eager to see the rest of me?
I’d be doing all of trailhead a favor if I help take it off
I smile, the compliment unnecessary but welcome.If you don’t show up tomorrow, maybe next week?
Or you can drag your ass in here for more than nerd night. we used to see you a lot more
Says the guy who’s barely there himself
Darren tell you that?
It’s barely related to Beau’s question, but I scroll through my texts until I find the last time Darren and I went back and forth anywhere but from across the bar. It’s been weeks, and I don’t think I’m surprised, shrugging to myself when I return to Beau.
He said you guys are busy with the new place
The “new place” is Adrian’s photo gallery, and technically more his responsibility than Beau’s, but I don’t see a need to make that distinction when I’m sure Beau is plenty involved in getting his significant other set up for a grand opening rumoredto be happening soon. Adrian has been an independent photographer for years, but he’s only just bought a storefront in West Hollywood, and even I can admit that his pictures will sell incredibly well. He’s talented, and because my friend loves him, I’ll be there to support them both when it’s time.
We are. Still miss your smile