Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

I try to look at the ceiling while her stare almost drills a hole in my face. My best life is something I desperately want—a life filled with respect and love and two or three babies at some point. The life I’ve never had and craved so badly from as far back as I can remember.

I counter to myself. My life isn’t bad. I have Whitney and Tish who like me and make me happy, even if I never see Tish outside of work. But that’s not the point. I’m fulfilled by baking and have thought about getting a kitten at the shelter for companionship, but Whitney’s comments about the whole cat lady thing make me a little leery of jumping into that too soon.

Still, my life isn’t bad. It’s just not great.

When I look at her again, it’s like she can read my mind.

“You deserve a great life. One filled with laughs and love and orgasms,” she winks.

I don’t disagree. It sounds heavenly. It also sounds virtually impossible and, on the off-chance it is possible, the process sounds very, very people-filled.

“His name is Jonah,” she repeats, a little softer and less enthusiastic this time. “He was top of his class at Northwestern. He has a great smile, blue eyes that match his scrubs in the weirdest way but it’s a total turn on,” she rambles. “Plus, I might’ve viewed his abs on accident and they. Are. Killer.”

The vision she’s painting is vivid, but I don’t think it’s the one she’s aiming for.

At the mention of killer abs, my mind goes where it always goes. I used to fight it, to chastise myself for allowing him to affect me even when he’s not in my office, but I gave up on that around Christmas of last year. I’ve accepted it as my dirty little secret: I fantasize about Lance Gibson.

Sweat rolling down his muscled back, the dips and curves not too bulky like he spends his free time in a weight room, but sexier. Like he might throw down some push-ups here and there. The way his hips twist and flex, the cut pointing down to his groin—

“Where did you just go?”

My head snaps to Whitney. She’s got that ‘gotcha’ look painted on her face.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, feeling my face rat me out. I can’t wipe the smile from my lips, nor can I cool down the heat caused by the memory of the sight of his sweaty skin.

“What were you thinking about?”

Filling my lungs with oxygen, I blow it out as slowly and as time-consumingly as I can.

Maybe I should act on this. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am going to turn into an old cat lady if I don’t get out. But just as I’m about to agree with Whitney, images of Eric’s dumbass smile rip through me, Chrissy tucked under his arm, and my mother’s voice rings through my ears—

Snap! Whitney’s fingers whip against each other before she starts wagging one my direction. “Stop it.”

“I—”

“No.” She clamors to her feet, her hands going into her hair and drawing it back into a high ponytail. “I love you to pieces but I’ll love you a lot more when you stop playing that stupid spiel through your head.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I gulp.

“Yes, you do. You start to come around and then let them win.”

“No one is winning,” I protest.

I don’t know whether it’s worth it to defend myself or not. Her stance is always the same. So is mine. It’s an impasse in our friendship.

“Every day you sit here miserable is a day they win,” she says matter-of-factly.

“What do you want me to do, huh?” My hands flail in the air. “This is fucking hard, all right? It stings.” It feels cathartic to just let it out. “My sister, the perfect daughter according to my mother, just had a baby with my ex-boyfriend. You know the one. The one I thought I was going to marry.”

I expect to see a dose of sympathy. I get a blank face instead.

“Your sister did you the first favor she’s ever done. Be glad,” she deadpans.

“Ugh.”

Whitney chooses her words carefully. She wants to pick apart Eric, listing his various flaws and telling me why I’m better off without him, but the birth of the baby last week has her reconsidering her flamboyant response.

Falling back onto the sofa, I pick up a pink embroidered pillow and hold it against me. I finally broke down a couple of nights ago and trolled Chrissy’s social media. The baby is absolutely beautiful with Chrissy’s long eyelashes and Eric’s olive skin. She has a birthmark on her cupid’s bow, just like me.

The tears I blink away aren’t for Eric, although that’s probably what Whitney thinks as she watches me. It’s for the little girl I’ll never know because her mother and I have been at odds since we were kids. Nothing I’ve ever done, no choice I’ve ever made, no clothes I’ve ever worn or way I’ve styled my hair has ever been good enough for Chrissy. Or my mother. There’s got to be some irony in the fact Eric was good enough for them.