long–term problem. It would just make her crash harder later. Like eating a tonne of chocolate, then suffering a sugar hangover. Like going home with a cute waiter and then feeling swelling waves of guilt for using him.
Plus, she really doesn’t like Sam’s sterile loft in the big city where they used to go to school together. The whole place depresses her, and she doesn’t need to be depressed right now.
She needs … what does she need? If she could think of an answer to that question — one that didn’t start with “L” and end with “ucas” — she’d be set.
She’s not set, so she just goes to work every day, and eats when other people do, and sleeps — probably more than she ever has before, because sleep provides an excellent state of numbness.
She glances at the huge clock on the wall of her open–concept office at random times to find it’s 12:12 or 2:22, and she thinks Lucas , and she shivers.
“Do you want me to turn down the AC?” asks the receptionist.
“Oh, no thanks. I’m not cold; just someone walking over my grave.”
The receptionist nods, smiles. “I hate it when that happens.”
“Me too. I wish it would stop.”
She contemplates signing up for a French continuing–education course at the university in the fall, and she does sign up for a moonlight half–marathon, held in the hills outside the city. She’s nowhere near ready, so that will require lots of training; hours, and days, and weeks of distraction. Perfect.
Jocelyn stops walking by the pub. It’s not that things are unbearable with Ade — in the end she didn’t jilt him by text; she picked up the phone and talked to him. It seemed like a nicer thing to do, but the result was the same. No budding romance for either of them. He still sends her the odd sweet message. I guess it was TGTBT one of them said, and she pitched her phone on the bed “Aarrgghh!!” They even speak the same texting language — why can’t she like him?
Her social life has shrunk to hanging out with Beth in the evenings, watching Lainey and Byron run around in their communal back yard. During a heatwave, they strip down to their tiny underwear, and jump through the sprinkler Jed sets up for them.
Byron catapults out of the spray and onto her lap, freezing cold and dripping wet. Jocelyn’s throat twists and aches. Will she ever have her own funny, messy, slippery four–year–old to hug? Who’s she kidding? She doesn’t even have a boyfriend …
“Byron!” Jed yells and runs to scoop him up. “Poor Jocelyn.”
She tilts her head and looks at Jed through squinted eyes. Nope. Nothing like his brother. Nothing at all. A nice enough guy — sure — but none of that crazy spark. She’s sure Jed’s never sent Beth a Sorry kiss–off text. Of course, that could be because he actually loved her enough to marry her …
Beth hands Jocelyn a towel. “Sorry, Joss.”
She shrugs. “No biggie.”
“No, really,” Beth says. “You don’t have to sit here being kid–smothered. Enjoy your life while you still have options. I can’t even sign up for the one lousy class I want to take at the community centre.”
“What class?”
Jed walks past on his way to turn off the hose at the tap. “Are you still talking about that Latin dance class?” He turns to Jocelyn. “She’s obsessed.”
“Why can’t you take it?” Jocelyn asks.
“It’s Saturday night. Try getting a babysitter every Saturday night for eight weeks.” Beth laughs. “Jed was so sure I wouldn’t manage, he said he’d come with me if I found one.”
“I’ll do it.”
Beth shakes her head. “Weren’t we just talking about you enjoying your life?”
Jocelyn crouches down, holds her arms open to Byron. “Come here and give me a big, wet hug.” She scoops the soaking little boy up, snugs him tight to her, and turns to her friend. “You’d be doing me a favour. Let me hang out with them, and you two go Latin dancing.”
Beth bites her lip.
Plus, she really doesn’t like Sam’s sterile loft in the big city where they used to go to school together. The whole place depresses her, and she doesn’t need to be depressed right now.
She needs … what does she need? If she could think of an answer to that question — one that didn’t start with “L” and end with “ucas” — she’d be set.
She’s not set, so she just goes to work every day, and eats when other people do, and sleeps — probably more than she ever has before, because sleep provides an excellent state of numbness.
She glances at the huge clock on the wall of her open–concept office at random times to find it’s 12:12 or 2:22, and she thinks Lucas , and she shivers.
“Do you want me to turn down the AC?” asks the receptionist.
“Oh, no thanks. I’m not cold; just someone walking over my grave.”
The receptionist nods, smiles. “I hate it when that happens.”
“Me too. I wish it would stop.”
She contemplates signing up for a French continuing–education course at the university in the fall, and she does sign up for a moonlight half–marathon, held in the hills outside the city. She’s nowhere near ready, so that will require lots of training; hours, and days, and weeks of distraction. Perfect.
Jocelyn stops walking by the pub. It’s not that things are unbearable with Ade — in the end she didn’t jilt him by text; she picked up the phone and talked to him. It seemed like a nicer thing to do, but the result was the same. No budding romance for either of them. He still sends her the odd sweet message. I guess it was TGTBT one of them said, and she pitched her phone on the bed “Aarrgghh!!” They even speak the same texting language — why can’t she like him?
Her social life has shrunk to hanging out with Beth in the evenings, watching Lainey and Byron run around in their communal back yard. During a heatwave, they strip down to their tiny underwear, and jump through the sprinkler Jed sets up for them.
Byron catapults out of the spray and onto her lap, freezing cold and dripping wet. Jocelyn’s throat twists and aches. Will she ever have her own funny, messy, slippery four–year–old to hug? Who’s she kidding? She doesn’t even have a boyfriend …
“Byron!” Jed yells and runs to scoop him up. “Poor Jocelyn.”
She tilts her head and looks at Jed through squinted eyes. Nope. Nothing like his brother. Nothing at all. A nice enough guy — sure — but none of that crazy spark. She’s sure Jed’s never sent Beth a Sorry kiss–off text. Of course, that could be because he actually loved her enough to marry her …
Beth hands Jocelyn a towel. “Sorry, Joss.”
She shrugs. “No biggie.”
“No, really,” Beth says. “You don’t have to sit here being kid–smothered. Enjoy your life while you still have options. I can’t even sign up for the one lousy class I want to take at the community centre.”
“What class?”
Jed walks past on his way to turn off the hose at the tap. “Are you still talking about that Latin dance class?” He turns to Jocelyn. “She’s obsessed.”
“Why can’t you take it?” Jocelyn asks.
“It’s Saturday night. Try getting a babysitter every Saturday night for eight weeks.” Beth laughs. “Jed was so sure I wouldn’t manage, he said he’d come with me if I found one.”
“I’ll do it.”
Beth shakes her head. “Weren’t we just talking about you enjoying your life?”
Jocelyn crouches down, holds her arms open to Byron. “Come here and give me a big, wet hug.” She scoops the soaking little boy up, snugs him tight to her, and turns to her friend. “You’d be doing me a favour. Let me hang out with them, and you two go Latin dancing.”
Beth bites her lip.
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