Page 23 of Desperate Haste

“You know,” she starts, sucking on the inside of her lip as if she’s considering it. “Iwouldlet you help me relax right now, but you just insulted my show. So I guess we’ll both have to suffer.” Without giving me a chance to respond, she hits play on the show again and I suffer in silence as some drunken woman starts a fight and a guy with a totally made up name talks about how much he wishes he could find his soul mate.

Soul mates.

True love.

Two things that you only ever see in TV shows, movies, or books because they’re just that—fictional.

At the end of the episode, Ophelia pauses the TV again and stands from the couch with a stretch. With her arms above her head, her sweater lifts just enough to expose a strip of her soft stomance and I’m hit with the desire to press my lips to it. Or sink my teeth into it. Or fuck, maybe both? She looks at her phone to check the time before looking at me.

“I’m getting kinda hungry, do you want anything for lunch? Are you staying for lunch?” She doesn’t seem like she’s trying to insinuate that I should leave but I ask a question anyway just to see if I can get her to admit she wants me to stay twice in one day. She might not be ready to admit it yet, but I can tell she doesn’t totally hate having me around.

“Doyouwant me to stay for lunch?” I move my glasses from my eyes to the top of my head and love how her eyes focus in on my bicep as I do.

“I mean, I’d have to eat alone if you leave,” she scoffs, making her reason for wanting me to stay aboutherinstead of what it’s really about—the fact that she wants me to stay.

“Well we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” I smile at her. She rolls her eyes and heads to the kitchen as I stand from the couch. She swings the door of the fridge open and bends at her waist to look inside, leaving me to happily take in the image of her ass on the other side of the bar.

“I probably should have checked the fridge before offering because I have absolutely no food here.”

“That’s okay, let me take you somewhere so we can get you fed.” She turns on her heels and studies me skeptically from the kitchen.

“This isn’t you trying to take me on a date, is it?” she questions. One of her eyebrows is lifted so high I’m surprised it hasn’t disappeared into her hairline.

“Not unless you find pastrami overly romantic,” I throw back, mirroring her accusatory tone. “The place I had in mind is a local deli. The guys who run it are good people, and the sandwiches they make are unreal.”

She wraps her lips around her teeth and pops her hip out to one side as she crosses her arms in front of her chest. “I do love a good sandwich.”

“Then put your shoes on and let’s go. We can take my truck.” We stare at each other for a beat before she starts to head towards her bedroom.

“This isn’t a date you know,” she calls out from her bedroom before coming back out holding a pair of white sneakers in her hand. “I don’t date people, not like this at least.”

“Who said anything about this being a date?” I challenge. My feet move towards her front door and slip into my shoes before waiting for her to join me.

“I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me asking you to stay or to have lunch. This”—she waves her hand between us as she moves towards the door with her shoes now on—“is just sex.”

“Who are you trying to convince, princess? Me or you?” Her brown eyes scowl at me before she tosses her purse over her shoulder a little more aggressively than needed.

“Let’s go, pretty boy,” she scoffs, pulling her front door open and stepping out. Once she locks the front door, we head for the elevator and walk side by side without saying anything. The desire to grab her hand and hold it as we walk to my truck nags me, but I know that wouldn’t be allowed.

People only hold hands when they are going on a date.

And she had made it clear that thisdefinitelyisn’t a date.

* * *

“Malcolm, long time no see, boy.”Darryl’s warm voice booms through the tiny deli stand that has been in his family for generations. It’s a hole in the wall, mom and pop shop that’s off the beaten path in an older part of Charleston. Its ancient vinyl flooring was around when Nixon was in office and the outside hasn’t been painted since the original Woodstock took place. I only know about it because Marshall had brought me here a few times in the early days of my recovery as he and Darryl are old friends. He, Reese, and Marshall are what I hope to have with my own friends when we reach their age.

“How’s it going, Darryl? How’s Julia? And the grandkids?” I ask about his wife and family as Ophelia looks around the worn down establishment next to me. We drove here in my truck in near silence, the only sound in the cab coming from the radio I’d tuned to the local country station.

“They’re good, they’re good.” He nods his head at me with a kind smile. “And who’s this you brought with you? Your girlfriend?”

Ophelia’s head whips around and looks at Darryl with wide eyes. His question is innocent but the assumption that we’re anything more than what we are puts her on edge.

“No, no, we’re just friends,” I hurry, waving my hands in front of me.

“We’re sleeping together. It’s just sex,” she deadpans as if it’s a totally casual thing to admit to a complete stranger. I look at her with a stunned expression as the air becomes ripe with discomfort.

“Uhm, okay then, how nice,” Darryl sputters, the apples of his cheeks turning a slight shade of pink due to her forthcomingness. “What can I get for ya?”

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