Page 19 of Friend Zoned

“I thought we had something, but when I saw her last, she put up this huge wall, and I don’t understand why.” He nods as if he knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“Keep trying. Don’t go away. Get in her space, and make sure she can’t forget you.”

We board the bus, take the ride to Hanscom airport, and board our private plane. It’s a short ride from Boston to Teterboro. We land in less than an hour, and everyone is so hyped from our win, I don’t have much time to form a plan. The moment I slide into the back of my car, the answer becomes clear. Her scarf is on the seat next to me, and I pick it up to smell it. It smells just like her, musky and light. It’s like the scarf is a sign, and I know exactly what to do next.

Chastain’s advice is still on my mind the next day while I stand outside Jeannie’s apartment building. If getting in a woman’s space worked for Chastain, I’m sure I can make it work for me. As I glance at the building, I can only hope she’s home. When I called the hotel, I was told she was off today, which is what I was hoping for. I stand there for five minutes after ringing the bell and realize how big of an idiot I am for not calling first. I wanted to take her by surprise. I didn’t want to give her a chance to give me a reason not to come over. Now, I’m standing here with my dick in my hand.

Just as I pull out my phone to text her, a car stops in front of the building. She gets out, and I go to her while she pulls out grocery store bags from the trunk.

“Need help?”

She lets out a gasp of surprise but smiles when she sees me. Our eyes lock, and I feel that same electricity each time we’re near. She looks into my eyes before she breaks the stare, lowering her eyes to linger on my lips, but then she looks away and clears her throat. I grab the bags and follow her inside. We don’t speak while we ride the elevator to the fourth floor. It’s a decent building. Nothing spectacular, but it looks safe. Then I remind myself not to be elitist.

“So, what brings you by?” She unlocks her door, and I follow her inside.

The place is small and pretty bare. There’s a round table and two chairs in the tiny kitchen. The best thing I can say about the kitchen is that it’s functional. The countertop is basic white and parts of it are peeling. There’s a white fridge against the wall, and it looks pretty new, but the cabinets look old and cheap. There’s a couch that’s seen better days in the living room. A flat screen TV sits on the floor. Right above it, the word bitch is written in bold, black letters. It looks like she added the word bad in bright red lipstick.

I point to it and put the bags on her table while I wait for an explanation. There are three books on the table, and when I pick them up, I realize they are all self-help books. One is titled,Putting Your Life Back on Your Terms After Divorce.

I notice another stack on the coffee table, and they all have the same theme. They all deal with life after divorce. Now I have a clue as to what she was reading the night at the wedding. No wonder she showed up dressed all in black. I decide to tackle one thing at a time. I point at the wall again.

“Oh, that’s courtesy of Quintin, my ex-husband,” she says. “Long story.”

“I have time,” I tell her. I take off my jacket to make my point. She does the same, and I swallow at the sight of her breasts in her gray sweater.

“How about something to drink first?” She holds out a bottle of rum. “Or wine?” She goes to her fridge and shows me a bottle of white wine. “I think this one cost about eight bucks,” she says with a grin.

“Lady’s choice. Choose based on how bad the news is.” She grabs two glasses and pours two shots of rum. We clink and drink.

“Long story short, I got this apartment in the divorce. His parents bought this back in the nineties when the neighborhood was still shit. They gave it to us as a wedding gift, though we never lived here. It was a rental property. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want anything beyond getting out of the marriage, but my lawyer told me not to be stupid. She went after it, and I got it. He’s never gotten over it. He trashed the place. Took all the appliances and wrote all kinds of obscenities on the wall. Bitch is the least of it. I’ve painted over the others, but I’m keeping bitch. I’d like to think I’m a bad bitch.”

I pick up the rum and refill our glasses. She pulls out an apron from the pantry and ties it around her waist.

“How much time do you have? Is there a game tonight?”

“I’m free all night,” I tell her.

“Want to stay for dinner?”

That’s everything I was hoping for when she let me walk into this apartment.

“I’d love to.”

“I already cooked most of the food, but I had a sudden craving for plantains, so I had to go out and get some.”

“Plantains? Can’t say I’ve ever had those.”

“You’re in for a treat, and because you’re a virgin, I’m going to make both kinds.” I start to cough uncontrollably, and she says, “A plantain virgin, not an actual virgin. Duh.” She walks over and gently punches my arm. “Unless you want to confess something,” she teases. “This is a no judgment zone.” Her eyes light up as she looks at me, and I want to drag her into her bedroom and show her how experienced I am when it comes to sex.

“Very funny,” I tell her. When she laughs at my expense, I say, “So, tell me more about this asshole ex-husband. How long have you been divorced?” Maybe she’s not over him, and that’s the wall of resistance I’ve come upon.

“Going on a year but left him two years ago. It took a year for the divorce to finalize. Been over him for three years.” I find myself sighing in relief at the last admission.

“He sounds like a real jerk,” I say, willing her to give me more information.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it.”

“Enlighten me, please.”

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