Spiked Lemonade: A Bad Boy Sailor and a Good Girl Romantic Comedy Standalone (36 page)

“Um,” I sigh. “Yeah, I decided to come a little sooner. Once I made my mind up about coming, I didn’t want to wait so long.”

“Five whole days?” she asks through laughter. “Damn, you do love him, don’t you?”

Her question makes me uncomfortable, and I find myself losing eye contact and peering down to the ground in front of me, avoiding whatever she’s thinking. And possibly whatever I’m thinking.

“Is he here?” I ask.

“I thought you guys had been talking every day and shit?” she asks.
Why won’t anyone answer my question?

“Well, not every day but most days. Though, the conversations were…”

“Jags-like conversations?” she snickers, peering back down at a paper on her desk.

“Yeah,” I say with a weak, kind of nauseating, smile.

“Well, you can find him at the Naval Hospital but try not to worry, okay? I think he should just be the one to tell you about what he’s got going on.”

My eyes quickly lock back onto hers with excruciating wonder. “What?” I choke out. “Why is he in the hospital?” My heart hurts. Like a stabbing pain kind of hurt. “Is he okay? What happened?”

“I promise you have nothing to worry about. Okay? Just let him talk to you. I can’t be the one to say what he needs to say,” she says, looking back down to her papers.

“Say what, Greta? Why wouldn’t he have told me?”

“I don’t know, Sasha,” she says with more of a snippy tone.

“Okay,” I offer quietly, turning to leave her office.

“You broke his heart,” she adds in as I’m walking out. I knew that was coming. I didn’t know from who, but I knew it was out there floating around waiting to smash into me like a ton of bricks. “I get why you did what you did. I do. I’m a firm believer in starting over. But you had to have known this was a possibility before you started anything with him. You made him fall for you and then you got up, and out of nowhere, took off.”

I turn around to look at her while she’s talking, taking the beating I clearly deserve. “I know I hurt him. I hurt me in the process but—”

“I told you, I get it. We all make mistakes, and we all wait too long to make a decision that needs to be made. I’m simply stating the obvious. Jason needed to do the same with his life, and I’m glad he did.” He moved on. It’s over. Why wouldn’t he just tell me this? Especially knowing I was coming out here to visit.
She called him Jason.
He said no one knew his real name.
She knows his real name. She’s not a no one
.

“Thanks for explaining,” I tell her.

“My ex-husband left me in the middle of a dark alley one night. Locked me out of our apartment, kept the keys to my car, took everything I had. He couldn’t look at the scars on my body anymore. He said it made him sick every time he thought about them. Never saw the dirtbag again.”

“I’m so sorry, Greta. You don’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve that. You deserve to be treated better.” I’m guessing she is now, though. By the man who proved he’d treat me like gold, and I knew that, threw the thought of it in the trash and left him with a tear in his eye.
I deserve this
.

“You’re right. My story was a little different than yours, though. Your reasons for leaving were fair and just. I agree that you needed to step away from the whole lemonade facade,” she says through gentle laughter. “Looks to me like you found yourself a little out there in Boston, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say, twisting my flat-ironed hair behind my ear. “I did.”

“Leather looks good on you, and those boots are sick. You definitely scream “Boston.” I lived there for a while too. That place will put some hair on your chest.” I reach my hand over to my bare chest, feeling around for the hair I know isn’t there. “I was making a joke. It’s a good place to find yourself, that’s all I was saying.”

I nod my head and force a small smile. “Thanks again,” I tell her.

“Oh, and thanks for the cannolis. I missed the crap out of that place in the North End, and that delivery made my weeks so much better.”

“Anytime.” I wave at her and leave with a, “See you later, Greta.”

“See ya, Spiked Lemonade,” she says.
Spiked Lemonade? I don’t hate the sound of that. In fact, I kind of like it.

As I’m walking back out to my car, I pull my phone out to send Jags a message. If he was hurt and in the hospital, why didn’t anyone tell me? Surely, Cali and Tango must have known this. How could they keep it from me? Maybe it’s something else. But what?

My phone has four messages from Cali when I light up the screen. She wants to know if I’ve landed and where I am.

Me:
I’m here, just leaving the body shop…

Cali:
Oh (laughs)

Me:
Did you forget to tell me something very important? Like Jags is in the freaking hospital?

Cali:
Calm down. It’s not what you think. It’s almost five. Go to my house, freshen up, and meet me at Chet’s in an hour.

Me:
I was kind of hoping to go find Jags at the hospital.

Cali:
Don’t do that. Let’s talk first.

I feel so completely defeated, and I want to ignore what Cali just told me to do and run to find out why the hell he’s in a goddamn hospital right now. I mean, I did just speak to him two days ago, and there was no mention of a hospital. What in the world could have happened? I know he was working on that stupid bike for Greta. That thing took him months to fix from what he said about it. I hope he didn’t take it for a test ride and crash the thing into a brick wall. Oh my God, what if he’s really hurt? And here I’ve been living it up in Boston while he’s laid out in a hospital bed somewhere.

I’m thinking the worst, though. Right?

I race over to Cali’s house and use my key to make my way inside. I walk around the house for a minute, looking for any hint of what has changed in the last year. At least whatever has changed that no one has felt the need to tell me about.

Walking into the room I slept in for those few weeks, I find a pile of clothes on the bed, with a note.

Figured you didn’t bring any fun clothes to go out in so I left this for you. And don’t question me. Just do it.

-Cali

What? First, I look fine. Second…Jags might be in the hospital, and I already feel bad enough meeting Cali for drinks before I know what’s going on with him.

This is ridiculous.

I look back at her note again and the words telling me not to question her.
Ugh. Fine, Cali! You better have some explanations for me.

I strip down and put on the clothes she laid out for me, not afraid of the short length of the dress anymore. It’s a dark red but it’s casual and fun. I gotta hand it to her, for someone who likes to wear all dark clothes with little to no style, she definitely has good taste. I just wonder why she doesn’t wear things like this.

I take my heels out of my bag because they’re my favorite shoes, and I like them better than what Cali left for me, but I think she’d approve of the four-inch heels. I close the door to look into the full-length mirror and run my fingers through my board-straight hair. I reach over to the bureau for my cosmetic bag and layer on a little make-up.
I look good enough to meet Cali. A little too good. What am I doing?

With that thought, I pull a long black cardigan out of my bag, and pause to wipe off some of the lipstick I put on. Covering myself up a little more, I feel more appropriate for going to Chet’s, of all places.

My phone buzzes on the bed, and I look over to see another message from Cali.

Cali:
Be there in ten. See you soon. Can’t wait to squish that face of yours.

Me:
On my way, Cali-girl.

I grab my things and head out the door, realizing I still feel very wrong about this, so I start a new text to Jags, hoping to clear things up. I’m done waiting for an answer.

Me:
Hey, so, how are you?

Five minutes pass without a response. Maybe I should just assume the worst and be surprised if it’s anything better, the worst being he’s hurt or sick or he’s on his way down the marriage road with Greta. That’s the worst for me. I picture them riding off into the sunset together on that bike Jags restored for her, with a big old “Just Married” sign on the back and tin cans clanking along behind. Why am I torturing myself with thoughts like this? I consider taking a detour to the hospital but is it my place to be there if something is wrong? What if he doesn’t want me there? I am so friggin’ confused right now.

Regardless of wanting to go to the hospital, I find myself pulling into Chet’s, noticing that Cali’s already here. Gosh, I’ve missed her like crazy.

Anytime we get to see each other after being apart for so long, it feels like no time has passed, and it’s the best part of having her as my closest friend.

I walk inside, finding her at the bar with two drinks, one in front of an empty chair and one in front of her. “Cali-girl,” I say, walking up to her.

She springs from her stool and throws herself into me, squeezing the air out of my lungs. “Holy shit, I missed you, Sash.”

“Me too,” I say with only my breath because I’m pretty sure I can’t make a sound with as tight as she’s hugging me. “So, can you tell me what’s going on now?” I’m not wasting time with this.

She releases her jaws of life and pulls me over to the bar where we both sit down. Looking quickly down at her watch, she says, “Tango should be here soon. He can’t wait to see you either. He’s just taking Tyler to the sitter’s house right now.

“Cali…”

“Okay, I know.”

“Is Jags okay?”

She turns around in her seat and takes a sip of her beer.
Why won’t anyone answer me?
After a long second, she moves the glass from her lips and peers back over at me. “I feel like he should tell you everything himself.”

“Great, well when will that happen? I’m just going to text him again. This is ridiculous.”

“Just wait, okay?” she says.

“No, Cali. I feel sick to my stomach wondering what’s going on with him. I need to know.”

I tear my phone from my clutch and follow my earlier text.

Me:
Can we talk? Like on the phone. It’s important. Please.

I place the phone down on the bar top because I’m anxious for a response or a lack of response. I need an answer.

“Tell me about Boston. Is everyone still as miserable as I remember them being there?” she laughs.

“They’re not so bad. Everyone is just in a rush and has somewhere to be. Oh, and those girls out there sure know how to drink. I can tell you that.”

“Yeah, they can,” she says, grinning while pulling in another long sip of beer.

I follow suit, downing half the glass, needing to eliminate some of this pain and worry. The pain and worry I kind of caused.

An hour passes, and there’s still no response from Jags, and it’s starting to make me crazy. Cali would tell me if something was really wrong, though. She wouldn’t keep that from me. “Is he hurt?” I ask for the third time.

“Sasha, if Jags was dying, I’d tell you,” she says, sounding irritated with me. “Look…” As she’s starting to talk, the DJ turns up the music.

I almost forgot that it’s eighties night tonight. The thoughts and memories of the last time I sat through an eighties night here hurts my heart just a little bit more.

“Sorry, geez that’s loud. Just, don’t worry, okay?” The more Cali tries to reassure me, the more freaked out I become.

I close my eyes, nodding my head, feeling pissed, and not wanting to take it out on her but who else do I have to take it out on right now? “I have to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” I tell her.

She takes another sip of her beer in response.

I stand up, and pulling my dress down over my thighs, I realize how high it had scrunched up in the past hour. Geez. It’s also become twenty degrees hotter in here so I remove my sweater and drape it over my chair.

Once inside the bathroom, I look at the counter and feel a blush creep through my cheeks in memory of my completely inappropriate and disgusting behavior the last time I was in here. Though, the thought of it now makes me a laugh a little. I don’t think I’ve ever drank as much as I drank that night.
Smartest move ever.

I look in the mirror, seeing how pale I look after living in Boston. There seems to be no sun seven months of the year there. I knew the northwest was like that, but it seems the east coast is a strong competitor for depressive weather half of the year.

I dig into my purse for some lipstick and trace it along my lips, giving myself a little more life. After using the bathroom, I wash up and finally, I feel my phone buzz in my clutch. I pull it out and see a response from Jags, which causes my heart to respond with a heavy flutter as my stomach does flips.

Jags:
Sure, I’ll call you in a couple of minutes.

Me:
Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay.

My hands start to shake while I continue to hold my phone in front of my face, waiting for a response.

After watching for a long minute, I don’t even see a “read” receipt pop up. Nothing.

Irritated and annoyed, I whip the bathroom door open to head back to the bar and drop my clutch as I do so. “Dammit,” I groan. Leaning down to retrieve it, I find a pair of work boots or combat boots, some kind of boots—standing in front of me—in front of the ladies’ room door. As I slowly stand up, my focus grazes along a pair of blue camouflage pants, topped with a dark blue, tight shirt. When my eyes finally meet his face, my heart stops and lodges in my throat for so many different reasons.

“I can explain,” he says with a grin.

“You better,” I cry out, clasping my arms around his neck.

His hands find my hips, and he pushes me away to look at me from head to toe. “My God, Boston has been good to you, doll-face.”

He pulls me by the arm out to the bar, not taking his eyes off of me for even a second. “So you’re okay?” I’m still crying through my words. I’ve been so worried all day; I can’t help it.