Page 140 of Love What's Left
Sydney steps out of my arms and holds up the card. “I’ll put this with the others.”
And then she’s gone, and Josh and I are left standing near each other with more than ten years’ worth of things to say and no idea where to start.
He clears his throat. “You both look good. Everything okay with you guys?”
I scratchthe back of my neck. “Yeah. We’re great. How about you?”
“Good.” Josh stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I came as soon as I had the chance to get off shift at the hospital.”
“Glad you could make it.”
He gives a small shake of his head then takes a breath. “I wasn’t sure what I’d be walking into here.”
I still remember the look of disgust on his face when he’d found my old apartment vandalized, with me shitfaced and lolling on a sofa in the middle of a blaring party. My wallet was empty. My keys were gone and my favorite watch, given to me by my grandfather, was no longer on my wrist. I’d kicked out the bodyguards Dad hired to protect me because I was sick of listening to their judgmental shit.
Josh called my guards back inside, retrieved my cards and watch, though we never found those keys, and cleared out the apartment. When he tried to help me to my feet, I’d thrown a punch at my best friend in retaliation for ruining my night.
And he’d finally thrown up his hands in defeat.
“Sober nine years, three months, and”—I check my watch—“four days.”
“I couldn’t stay to watch you kill yourself. I didn’t have it in me.”
“I can tell you right now, the kid I was before and the man I am now are glad you protected yourself. I was on a sinking ship I’d set on fire. You kept trying to pull me onto a lifeboat, and I fought you harder every time. There comes a point where you have to prioritize your own survival. I’m sorry for what I put you through.”
“Your apologies used to piss me off.”
His phrasing doesn’t ease my tension. “Because they meant nothing.”
He shakes his head and watches Ian toddle from Henry to Franki. “I knew youmeantthem. But your trajectory was fueled by shame in the first place. Adding more was rocket fuel, and every time you talked to me that last year you got angry so you could have an excuse to let loose. Then you’d apologize and use your guilt as a reason to do the same thing.”
I clear my throat. “Shifting responsibility is straight out of the alcoholic playbook.”
“I should have kept in touch, though. At first, it was a relief to take that weight off my shoulders. If I couldn’t stop you, at least I wasn’t making you worse. I was in med school, and . . . then I ran into your mom. She said you got sober, and I should call you. But I kept thinking about how much better you were doing without me. I didn’t want to rock the boat.”
I grapple for words. “Correlation, not causation.”
He nods.
I shift on my feet. Scratch my ear.
We both speak at the same time.
“James Mellinger and I play pick-up basketball on Saturday mornings if you want to—”
“I have some extra tickets to the Mets game next week if you and Sydney want to join me—”
We stop. He laughs. I smile.
“Most Saturdays work for me as long as I’m not on rotation at the hospital,” he says.
“I’ll check with my wife for her schedule, but I’m pretty confident it’ll be a ‘hell, yes’ to the baseball game.”
Josh grips my shoulder. Then we’re in a full-on hug, pounding each other on the back and squeezing hard. After a minute, we ease away from each other.
Janessa strides toward us with Sydney close on her heels. I don’t have time to process a single theory about what’s happening before they reach us. Sydney shoots me an apologetic look, then clears her throat. “Josh Granthy, I’d like you to meet my friend, Janessa Fontini.”
Josh blinks twice, then stares into Janessa's face like a man entranced. “Nice to meet you.”
