Page 12 of Friend Zoned

We arrive back in New York early Sunday morning. We’ve only been gone five days, but it might as well have been five hundred. I feel old and worn. It’s three in the morning by the time I arrive at my Tribeca townhouse. I drag my suitcase up the stairs and into my bedroom, drop it in the middle of the room, strip down to my underwear, and climb under my sheets. Tomorrow is a rare Sunday off, and I plan on sleeping in.

I close my eyes and when I open them again, rays of sunshine are seeping in through the blinds. I run my hand over my face and stare at the ceiling.

It’s been about a year since I’ve been in a relationship and six months since I had a woman. My dick is so hard right now, I’m afraid the slightest movement might break it off. My last girlfriend wanted more than I was willing to give at the time. She wanted to move in, and when I didn’t take the bait, she started complaining about my work schedule. I warned her about that before we made anything official, and she assured me it wouldn’t be a problem since she has her own career. A few months later, the complaints began. I wasn’t surprised. That’s how all my relationships have gone.

I’ve never been willing to put a woman before my career.

You can’t hug and kiss your career, can you? Can you get up and take your career to brunch? Can your career hold your hand and support you when you’re going through a rough time? Can your career make you laugh?

When my mother said those things to me a few years ago, I ignored her and reminded myself she’s the last person I’d take advice from. I love her but giving sage advice isn’t her strong point.

Or maybe you’ve just never met someone you’re willing to put ahead of your job.

I grab my phone. There are about two dozen work emails since last night, but I decide to ignore those until later. I’m taking full advantage of my day off. Times like these, I wish I had friends, but I chose basketball over friendships too. I make a mental note to befriend Colt Chastain and his wife.

There are no missed calls or text messages from Jeannie. The last time we texted was when I was boarding the plane last night. She never responded to my last message. I throw my phone on the empty pillow next to me.

What the hell now, Walsh? What now, and what can you offer her other than things that money can buy? That will only go so far, and she doesn’t strike me as the type of girl who will be wowed by that. At least not for long. She’ll want substance over flash. Your time instead of some expensive bauble.

She’s the same woman who was reading a book at a wedding where most of the men were millionaires. An assistant general manager at one of my family’s hotels is not an easy position. I know the job description and everything that goes with it. She’s a hardworking individual. She’s probably the type of woman who takes pride in supporting herself.

She’s also the first woman to make me laugh and enjoy myself in years.

Me: How’s the brunch situation at The Pierre today?

It’s only ten o’clock in the morning. There’s plenty of time to get dressed and get over there. I wait for her to text back, and ten minutes later, there’s no response. I roll out of bed, brush my teeth, and shower. By the time I return, there’s still no text from her.

I decide to forget the suit and tie and go casual today. I put on a black V-neck sweater and jeans. I’ve stayed off the sugar since I had the cupcake and worked out extra hard this week.

I run a brush through my hair and wonder if I’ll have to cut it if I take my sister up on her offer. I don’t trust her about not having to travel. That’s all our dad did when he held that seat. That’s why his marriage to my mother failed. He was never home. Being a jerk didn’t help either.

I check my phone once more and see nothing from Jeannie. I ignore the text from my sister after a quick glance. It’s a Christmas picture of the two of us taken when she was ten and I was six. We’re in matching Santa sweaters, and I wonder what the hell my mother was thinking, but I remind myself that the nanny probably picked out our clothes. We’re both smiling and clearly happy though. Katherine’s teeth look big and crooked. She threatens to tweet it and tag me.

I leave my room and go downstairs. After putting on my jacket and shoes, I step out into the cold December morning. Not wanting to bother my driver today, I hail a taxi and take the quick ride to The Pierre. It’s a busy morning, and I have to wait for a table. If not for my need to see her, I would turn around and leave. Instead, I walk around the first-floor lobby hoping for a glimpse of her, but I get nothing.

After I’m seated, there’s still no message from her, and I resign myself to not seeing her at all. I order a vegetable omelet and pull out the card she gave me, taking the chance and dialing her office phone.

It rings three times before she picks up.

“Thank you for calling The Pierre. This is Jeannie Dubois.” I can hear her breathing on the other end of the line. I momentarily forget what to say, but I manage to clear my throat and form a sentence.

“Hey, there,” is all I say. Idiot.

“Coach?” She’s breathing heavily as if she was just running.

“The one and only. Take a break and meet me in the restaurant for brunch.” I want to smack myself for posing it like an order instead of a question, but when you’re raised to think you run the world, it’s hard to retrain yourself.

“Which restaurant?” She speaks slowly as if she already knows the answer but still needs to hear it.

“The one at The Pierre.” The line goes quiet for so long, I look at the phone to make sure the call isn’t dropped.

“You’re here?”

“I am, and I kind of feel like a loser sitting here all by myself.” There are either couples or families and a few tables with women drinking mimosas. Then there’s me by myself.

“I’m not allowed to fraternize with the guests.” The playfulness I’m used to is gone, and I feel like a jackass for bulldozing my way in here. Of course, she can’t, and I should have realized that. “But I’ll stop by and say a quick hello.”

She ends the call, and I wonder if she feels obligated to come here because I’m a guest. Or worse, she did a deep Google dive after our meeting and figured out that Aiden Walsh and The Walsh Group are pretty much one and the same.

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