Page 34 of I'm Your Guy
“Okay, sure. But don’t order anything for me. I brought a sandwich.”
“Ooh. Anything good?”
I shrug. “Just a PB&J. I’ll be eating a lot of that this month.”
Rigo sets down his brush. “Why? I thought you were flush with cash from Mr. Hockey Hottie.”
“Uh, no. I still owe fifteen thousand dollars on my credit card, and I’m behind on my student loans. There’s no way I can rent an apartment until I pay that down. I wouldn’t pass the credit check.”
“Jesus,” Rigo whispers. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“Yeah, but I promise I’ll be out of your hair the minute Buck comes home.”
Rigo shakes his head. “Why aren’t you suing Macklin, as well as your client? It doesn’t make sense for you to pay off furniture you don’t own and never meant to buy.”
“Oh, I’ve fantasized about it for sure. But suing people takes months and thousands of dollars. It would cost more to make them pay than I can afford.”
My best friend sags. “God, I’m sorry.”
“I just need to spend another couple weeks eating peanut butter and treading water. That’s the price I pay for making stupid decisions.”
And starting a business with a terrible human who only cares about himself.
“My God, you have shitty taste in men. And clients.”
“Thanks. I noticed.”
He grins. “We have to find you a nice soldier like mine. Or—wait—a rich hockey player.”
I laugh, but my heart skitters. Every hour I spend with surly, buttoned-up Tommaso DiCosta makes him even more fascinating to me.
And the weird thing? Sometimes when I make him laugh, I feel like he might like me, too. Just as a friend, of course.
But maybe he needs more of those.
Maybe we all do.
* * *
Rigo orders way too much fried chicken and potato salad for one guy. It’s a very thinly veiled mistake meant to include me, and I am grateful.
But I almost can’t enjoy it, because I know he’s going to tire of that pretty fast. It’s hard to be the needy friend. I’m so tired of being broke and worried.
I’m seated on the drop cloth, finishing up my chicken, when the hockey game comes on. And there he is, in high definition—Tommaso in his gear, hockey stick clutched in one hand while the national anthem blares.
“Lookin’ good!” Rigo calls, clapping his hands. “Let’s do this, boys!”
It’s startling to see Tommaso’s familiar frown on the TV screen. My heart shouts I know him!
But now I feel like that woman in the furniture store, demanding his autograph on her leg. Eager to claim a piece of him.
I won’t be that guy. I’m not even interested in hockey, right?
After climbing to my feet, I throw my paper plate away, climb the ladder, and get back into action with my paint roller. There’s work to be done.
* * *
I last all of ten minutes before Rigo’s shouts and curses draw me right back down the ladder.
