Page 48 of The Lucky One

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Page 48 of The Lucky One

My phone buzzed on the coffee table. I propped myself up on my elbows and saw Mama’s name on the screen. “It’s Mama.” I reached for the phone but Paul was quicker to grab it.

“Can I?”

“Sure.” It was nice, how he was keeping in touch with her.

“Hi, Susanne!” He beamed. “Yes, I’m doing great. How are you?”

I leaned back, watching him engage in the conversation. “Pani is doing that, really?” I raised my eyebrows inquisitively, and he murmured, “Pani’s still sleeping on the sweatshirt I left on your bed.” He restarted rubbing my foot, which had somehow landed on his knee again. “You should come to America too,” he said into the phone. “I tried to make your Currywurst and it was terrible!”

My mother burst into laughter on the other end of the line.

“I swear I followed your recipe, but the sauce turned out incredibly slimy.”

I heard the front door close. I turned to see who had come home, and tugged my legs from Paul’s lap when I noticed Jon standing there, gazing at us darkly. With a shake of his head, he went back out the door.

“Jon!” I exclaimed, leaping up and chasing after him. I flew down the steps to the pathway without bothering to put on shoes. “Jon, it’s not what it looked like!”

He turned. “I know you and Paul are friends, but what the fuck was that?” His eyes weren’t so much angry as they were confused.

I stepped forward and cupped his face in my hands. “I know what it looked like, but it was nothing. Really.”

He looked to the side.

“Hey, look at me,” I said. “I promise I’m not changing my mind. I wrote all about it in my book for you to read so you know exactly what’s happening. Okay? I’m not hiding anything from you.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You wrote everything down?”

“Yes,” I promised. Yet I felt a pang of guilt for letting Paul get so close in the first place. I didn’t want to jeopardize what Jon and I had built in the last few weeks. “It won’t happen again. I’ll keep him at least one arm’s length away from now on. Okay?”

Jon hesitated. His hands found my wrists and gently pushed down my hands. “It’s not that... Even though I didn’t like your legs on his lap, that wasn’t the worst part.”

He sat down on the path. Quietly I sat down beside him, waiting for him to explain.

“He’s chatting with your mom like they’re old buddies, while I—I haven’t even ever talked to her,” he scoffed.

His words stuck in my heart. I utterly felt for him. He’d compared himself to Paul, and comparison is more dangerous than a storm at sea. It can take you off course, leaving you more lost and vulnerable. I moved closer to him, wrapping my arms around his waist. “You will meet her one day, okay?”

I didn’t mention the all-or-nothing solution of us getting married for a visa. I didn’t want to pressure him. He had so much on his mind already: staying clean, catching up with school, making amends with everyone. There would be a better time to discuss this. Eventually.

He let out a sigh, looking away. “I don’t like that he’s so much closer to you than I’ll ever be. I mean, you live together. How can I compete with that?”

“I understand why this isn’t easy for you, but I can’t move out, Jon.”

“I know,” he said, putting his arm around my neck and kissing my hairline. “I still hate it though.”

I didn’t respond to that. He was entitled to his feelings, and I would feel uncomfortable if he was this close to Kiki after all. I didn’t want to be a hypocrite.

“Didn’t you have a meeting today?” I asked, partly because I wanted to know how it went and partly just to switch the subject.

He clenched his jaw. “Finished early.” He got up and reached out his hand for mine. “Want to have dinner at my place?”

I accepted his lift and rose from the pathway. “Sure, let me get my...” I looked down at my fluffy socks. “Shoes. And tell Gena.”

He nodded, his expression still a bit tense. I hurried inside. I needed to find a way to make this situation easier for him.

When we arrived at Tim’s place, the dinner table was already set and a pot of tomato sauce bubbled away on the stove. Jon’s sister, a bubbly fourteen-year-old named Lauren, welcomed me with an excited hug. “I knew Jon liked you a lot,” she said.

“He’s a great guy. How could I not like him?” I squeezed her back.




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