The One I Want

I practically have to sit on my hands. Leaning back in my chair, I decide to tuck them behind my head and stare at the couch where Juni sat.

My thoughts cross many lines with her.

Her legs.

Those lips.

The shoes.

Her hips.

Fuck me, I’m no better than Justin.

And knowing she’s just across the office from me is distracting. Did I make a mistake by asking her to stay? I’m starting to think that seeing Juni every day will be a lot harder than I thought.

13

Andrew

I never know when I’m going to see Juni.

I just do.

She’s suddenly there, behind a bush or on the office floor. I never know when I’m going to see her next.

Scanning the street when I arrive home, I expect to see her walking Rascal or coincidentally catching her as she crosses my path. Hell, skydiving onto the awning wouldn’t surprise me at this point.

But even though I don’t, her presence fills my air. My world is feeling much smaller these days. The part I don’t understand is why I’m not bothered by it. For years, nothing sidetracked my goals, ensuring CWM thrives. It’s been my only thought day and night. And now, it’s as though my mission has shifted, and I’m stuck in the middle of a Tom Hanks movie.

Tut.

What am I thinking? We’re not in a romance movie. This is real life.

Mine, to be specific.

But admitting that I wish I knew where she lived is the first step. If I did, I could be on the lookout or even parachute into her world for once. But I didn’t even know her last name until this morning.

Jacobs.

Not what I would have imagined, but Juni Jacobs has some nice alliteration going on. Not that a form of figurative language is imperative when naming kids or couples, but there’s a nice ring to it.

Shit.

Before I have a chance to justify my stance, I’m devil advocating against myself.

Corbin Christiansen.

Cookie Christiansen.

Dalen Dalery.

Ethan Everest.

Jackson St. James. That might be a stretch, but then the couples come into play. Cookie & Corbin. Nick & Natalie. Andrew & Juni . . .

Nope. Doesn’t work. That’s why being friends with each other does.

With my finger on the trigger, I hold the bottle of air freshener in the air, ready to press it. I had the displeasure of my neighbor cooking again, still completely disregarding how it affects others through what I can only figure is an outdated ventilation system.

Although there’s no rhyme or reason that allows me to prepare for these international cooking fests, it occurs to me that this person follows some patterns.

They like cooking past what’s considered dinnertime to the average American and always after ten PM. Sometimes as late as one in the morning—or early, depending on how you view such times of the day.

They like to set the scene with music to match the theme. I’m curious if they decorate as well.

Also, it’s never something simple like a burger being cooked. There’s an international flair to these meals. Mexican food last week. Indian over the weekend—in the middle of the night when I was trying to prevent a hangover from invading my head. And Italian tonight.

The scent of marinara wafted through the vents along with La bohème played at an offensive volume. Not a note was missed, not even in my apartment with those three closed vents. Unfortunately.

I went to bed early and in a sour mood.

The thing is, I’m not sure why. My grandparents used to drag us to the opera, so listening to it is not torture. I actually kind of enjoyed hearing it again since it’s been so long. But my night was off, and I think I narrowed it down to something inside me.

I miss Juni.

Her pesky little tangents and the way she sees the world are totally different than I do. I’ve been a realist. Dreamers were younger siblings and people who weren’t committed to a path before they knew how to walk.

There’s a reason everyone calls me uptight, and it’s not because of my own choosing. It’s because I stepped up to the expectation plate and hit a homer for the home team—the Christiansens and our close to three hundred employees. CWM’s books have never been better.

But what if . . .

What if I start living for me? Not give up my work ethic, but sneak in something that’s not for others, something that’s personal for me. Juni.

Nobody has to know unless we want them to. I put down the air freshener because maybe the smell is better than I want to admit. It might even be delicious.

Sitting on the couch, I pick up the phone and do the one thing we haven’t done since the night we exchanged numbers. I text her again: What are you up to?

I fall back, realizing I just redefined the term lame.