Page 56 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

Emily (7:46 AM):It was surprisingly endearing.

Jack (7:48 AM):That’s worse.

Jack (7:50 AM):Also…you said the only relationship you ever had was in high school. Was that the ex that broke your heart before we met?

Emily (7:55 AM):Yes. His name was Liam. And the drama around it would have made an excellent Netflix series.

Jack (7:56 AM):What happened?

Emily (8:01 AM):Oh, you know…girl and boy are in love from freshman year all the way to senior year. But as it turns out, girl loved boy a lot more than he loved her. Boy is a liar. Girl is brokenhearted and jaded and would like to wipe the male species from the face of the earth…and then girl goes to college and meets a new boy who spillscoffee on her and then tries to smooth it over with flirting, but she’s scared and hates boys now, so she bites his head off and begins a decade-long feud with that boy. It’s basically your classic tale.

Jack (8:03 AM):What happens when girl and boy #2 mature and get older?

Emily (8:04 AM):They still fight a lot. But they’re starting to grow on each other.

Jack (8:15 AM):PS. You could never be a side character.

Chapter Seventeen

Jack

I’m midshower when it goes ice cold.

“Shit,” I say cranking the knob all the way to hot. “Shit, shit, shit.” It’s somehow getting colder with every second. Construction officially starts tomorrow—Monday—and it can’t get here fast enough. I am sick of living in this place. I’m sick of not having a kitchen. Of sleeping in a small-ass bed. Blame it on my upbringing, but I am not good at roughing it. I unapologetically enjoy comfort and nice things. Which is one reason it’s been great spending a fair amount of time over the last few days at Emily’s house.

It’s happened by accident. She was gone all day Friday with her sister Annie, delivering a flower order for an event a few hours out of town. A little thunderstorm rolled through, so she texted me asking that I go check on Ducky—who apparently doesn’t like storms. Ducky seemed fine to me, but I didn’t want Emily to worry, so I stayed and worked on my book at her house from the comfort of her couch. Emily came home that evening and found me there, lying flat on her couch, with my laptop propped up by pillows onmy lap, and Ducky curled up on my chest, her little orange face tucked under my chin. Turns out, I’m a cat person.

Emily stared at me for three beats and then asked if I wanted to stay for dinner. She put a frozen pizza in the oven, and we watched a movie together while we ate. I thought it would be awkward and tense after our scene blocking that almost turned into so much more the other day, but no. Emily was Emily and seemed determined to (A) not mention it and (B) act as unruffled as ever. And I sure as hell didn’t bring it up because this…whatever this is feels fragile and I won’t dare break it.

The next morning, she popped into my house without knocking (retaliation) and asked if I’d go with her to an estate sale to pick up a massive new rug she bought dirt cheap (after an impressive round of haggling) for her classroom next year. On our way home, we passed a used bookstore and stopped in. She found a pirate romance from the ’80s that’s definitely seen better days, but she swore Annie would want it. And as if the universe was laughing at me, on a stand by the register was a signed hardback edition of my first book. My heart raced as Emily eyed it, picked it up, and inspected the signature for so long I thought she was memorizing the curve of each loop. And then she bought it—claiming it was a sin to pass up a signed edition.

I felt as tall as an ant in that moment for not telling her the truth. The deeper into this friendship we get, I know Emily would keep my secret if I told her. That’s not what worries me anymore. Now it’s that we are finally…friends. In the past, competition has always gotten in the way of that. What happens if I tell her I’m a published author after learning she’s going after the same dream? Will it throw us right back into the center of the arena? I’m not ready to find out.

With ice-cold water, I scrub down my body as quickly aspossible, submerging only when it’s absolutely necessary. But when my landline—yes, landline—starts ringing from my kitchen, I decide to end the torture and get out.

“Just a second!” I yell as if whoever is on the call can hear me. I towel off at warp speed, pull on my black boxer briefs, and then snag my glasses off my bedside table on the way to the kitchen. I whip around the corner and lift the phone from the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Were you just on a run? Why are you so out of breath?”

“Who is this?” I ask, scrubbing the towel against the back of my head.

“It’s me. Jonathan.”

“Who?”

“Johnny!”

Water drips off my body and pools at my feet. “Bonnie? I don’t know any Bonnies.”

“Johnnyyyy,” he says, dragging out the name to overenunciate each letter. Not kidding, I’ve played this joke on him no less than three times and he falls for it every time. “Your agent!”

“My agent isn’t named Bonnie.”

“No—it’s Johnny with aJas injam.”

If I were warmer right now, I swear to God I would tell himJamis a strange name. Instead, I laugh. “Ohhhhh, Johnny. Why didn’t you say so?”

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