Page 56 of Loving Josy
Me: Sweetheart, I’m meeting the guys at the Tavern tonight.
Me: Do you need anything before I go?
A few seconds later, her reply comes through.
Josy: No, I’m good. But I know why he wants to talk to you guys.
Me: Really? Spill.
Josy: Nope. But don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. Go and have fun. Are you coming to my house after, or heading straight to yours?
I grin, already knowing what I want to say.
Me: Do you want me to come over?
Please say yes. Please admit you miss me as much as I miss you every damn day.
Josy: I wouldn’t mind having you here tonight.
My heart skips. My fingers hover over the screen, teasing her back.
Me: Sweetheart, are you saying what I think you’re saying?
A pause. Then:
Josy: …
Me: What does that even mean? Yes, no, maybe?
Josy: Come over, and you’ll find out.
Me: You’re killing me, woman. But I’ll be there.
Josy: Good. See you later.
I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. What is she hinting at? Is this finally it? Is she ready to take that last step we’ve been dancing around?
Man, I hope she is.
I push open the heavy oak door of the Tavern, and the familiar scent of fried food and stale beer greets me. Inside, the place is almost deserted, save for a couple of regulars nursing their drinks at the bar. It’s a Monday night—practically the dead zone for places like this.
Austin is already at our usual table, a half-empty beer in hand. He leans back in his chair, staring at the tabletop like it’s about to spill his deepest secrets.
I glance at Esteban, who’s walking beside me. He meets my look and shrugs. “This is weird as fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
I nod in agreement. Austin’s never the first to show up. Ever.
We make our way over, the sound of our boots muffled against the scuffed floorboards. Dropping into the seat acrossfrom Austin, I rest my forearms on the table and raise an eyebrow.
“Alright, dude, are you okay?” Esteban asks, getting straight to the point.
Austin looks up, his expression unreadable. He takes a sip of his beer, then sets it down slowly, like he’s buying himself time.
“I’m fine,” he says finally, but the tone of his voice screams otherwise.
“Bullshit,” Esteban shoots back. “You’re sitting here looking like someone stole your dog.”
“Or your truck,” I add, trying to lighten the mood.
