It's Complicated (49 page)

“It’s late July in Boston. There is no enjoyable weather unless you like to drink the air,” Josie said.

Trevor snorted, but stood and followed Darla. As they made their way through the living room, the cat backed up into the windowsill and forced Josie’s eyes to follow. Alex ran past.
Dammit!

“Nice form,” Trevor muttered.

“Thanks,” Darla chirped.

“I meant that guy,” he said, pointing to Alex. “He’s got good form for a runner. I used to run cross country.”

They settled into cheap plastic chairs Darla had trash-picked in the weeks she’d been living here. The streets of Cambridge on trash night had swiftly become Darla’s version of Target. There was nothing she couldn’t find when determined. Josie had to admit that the chairs were a nice touch. The neighbors used them, too, with Darla’s hearty blessing. Neighbors who had ignored Josie for years were suddenly friendlier. Everyone seemed to know Darla.

Of course they did.

“Hey there!” Darla shouted, waving wildly at Alex as Josie shrank. A hand went up and waved backwards, as Alex had already passed.

“Stop it!” she hissed at Darla.

“Why? You know him?”

Joe saved her from answering that question, taking a seat between her and Darla. Dressed in loose basketball shorts, a shiny green color with white piping, the edge of his boxer briefs peeked out over the waistband, right under his navel. As he slouched, the tanned skin of his belly didn’t roll or pucker. It clung to the little sculpted peaks of muscle in his six pack.

Make that
eight
pack.

She forced herself to break her gaze, knowing she’d look like a fool if caught staring at Joe. Turning her head, she saw Alex’s form turn the corner to the left and pass out of sight, his powerful legs propelling him away from her.

This was killing her.

Something had to give.

Who was that on Josie’s porch?
he wondered. The blonde was tall and built like a muscular swimmer, with overgrown, sun-bleached hair and the cocky confidence of a guy in his early twenties. Three or four times a week he ran on this path, knocking off four miles easily, hoping he might catch a glimpse of Josie. This was the first time it had actually happened, though, her little face peeking out from the curtains. Dotty or Crackhead had joined her—probably Dotty. Knowing their names made him grin.

And then a young blonde woman, curvy and loud, her hair long and wild, her face animated. She touched the guy possessively.
Hers
.

Holding his breath and running were mutually exclusive, the air coming out in a great whoosh of relief. Whew. The guy wasn’t with Josie. He didn’t think he could handle that. Pushing his form as he ran past, he pumped his arms, legs eating the earth, running far faster than his six-to-seven-minute-mile pace. Not that he was competing with the blonde.

Of course not.

His heart raced and his calves began to ache as he made his way right past them, but he wouldn’t break his new pace until he was out of sight. Whatever was going on, he wouldn’t let himself look weak.

The blonde woman shouted something at him and he waved absentmindedly, then, mercifully, he hit the left turn, giving him a chance to slow way down and catch his breath. Fucking ego. Why did he care what some strange guy thought?

He didn’t.

He cared what
Josie
thought.

Rounding the next corner, he knew that the bushes and playground would hide him from them until he came back up this loop. This was his third loop, which meant pushing harder than he’d expected, as each loop was two miles. Six miles wasn’t that hard.

How about eight?

Eight would give him one more go-around to see what, exactly, was going on. Lungs screaming in protest, hamstrings so tight he could string a guitar with them, he continued.

Because now, he saw, there was another guy.

Sitting right next to Josie.

“You’re staring at his scar, aren’t you?” Darla asked Josie, who was still trying to figure out where it was safe to look.

“Uh…what?” Josie felt dazed by Joe’s presence. He looked like something out of Greek mythology, sipping from a black and gold mug that said
Lipovac HVAC
on it.

“Joe’s scar.”

“His what?” And then she saw it, the thinnest of scars on his chest, but deep and long.

“Can you guess what that’s from? Josie’s a nurse,” Darla explained to Joe, who nodded.

“Open-heart surgery? Infant?”

Darla’s eye widened. “Good.”

“Yeah,” Joe said, nervous. He seemed uptight, suddenly, as if he didn’t enjoy being the center of attention. Suddenly sympathetic, she imagined he was uncomfortable precisely because he was so gorgeous. Being the center of attention must be his default. Who wants to be under the microscope like that?

“Touch it!” Darla chirped.

“Touch it?” Josie wanted to touch
Alex
. Not this very … nice ... young boyfriend. One of Darla’s boyfriends. Darla had two and Josie had none. “

It feels so neat,” Darla said, demonstrating by running her index and middle fingers down the long, bumpy line. “Can you imagine? He was just a bitty baby when it was done. Three months.”

Maybe Josie did want to touch. Just a little. She reached out tentatively, her approach slow and her fingers slightly curled, like she was approaching a friendly-seeming, but unfamiliar, dog.

“Hey, here comes that runner again. Damn, he’s fast,” Trevor added, staring down the street. They all turned to watch Alex, whose body was slick with sweat, hair soaked, face intense and determined. His calves tightened and his tendons stood out, his body in perfect form as he ran, nearly parallel to them now. Flooded with desire and an overwhelming urge to fling herself across the street and into his arms, Josie sighed as her eyes took him in, her gaze sliding from his glutes to his sweaty chest to his face, how his calves tightened and made tendons stand out, the way his body stayed in perfect form as he ran, now nearly parallel to them. Her breath caught and she put an arm out to steady herself; her fingers made contact with Joe's forgotten scar.

Her eyes locked with Alex’s. The look lingered, his intensity riveted on her by an order of magnitude so high she couldn’t imagine that mathematicians and physicists had discovered it. In Alex's eyes she saw pain, confusion, frustration, apology—and her future.

And then he slammed face-first into a
No Parking
sign.

Chapter Thirteen

She. Was. Touching. Him.

That guy. The one next to her in the green shorts, lounging like some model from an Abercrombie ad. The kind of guy Alex had played basketball with in high school. The too-perfect rich kid who had everything spread out before him on a platter—including girls—and who walked through life as if it were water, parents treating him like the New Fucking Messiah.

That guy.

Josie’s fingers were on him. Caressing his chest. Intimate and casual, like a lover. Her hands were supposed to touch Alex. Not that guy. Never that guy.

Never.

White rage raced through his veins as he caught her eyes, the exchange of emotion like a supernova pulse of energy. Could she feel it, too? Her face said so many things he wanted to hear.
Hello. I miss you. Can we talk? It’s good to see you. I’m sorry.

No, Josie. I’m sorry.

I’m the one who fucked up.

And then—hope. Her face broadened with the first hint of a smile, hand pulling back from the flesh bag who didn’t deserve her, and Alex felt grounded again. Centered. Like he’d been whiplashed emotionally back into a core of everything, pulling together the disparate pieces of himself that had slowly peeled away these past weeks.

Found.

In her eyes.

BAM!

His face felt it first, the smack of unexpected resistance against his head a ringing sort of annoyance, turning his eyes from Josie and rocketing him into a stellar shock.
What the fuck?
And then the pain seeped in, slow at first but roaring as his head ricocheted back, his breastbone striking something slim and hard, feet flying out from under him.

Instinct made his arms go back to catch himself, but then training overrode instinct. Surgeons needed to prize their hands above all else, so he held his hands up, still unaware of what was happening, but knowing he needed to save the hands at all costs. Pivoting in mid-air, he came down not on his back but instead on his hip, then shoulder, and finally the resounding thump of a melon hitting the ground.

That
, he thought,
would be my head
.

A scream. His name.

Then nothing.

“Alex!” Josie screamed, sprinting from the porch out into the street.
Holy fuck. Please let him be okay. Please please please.
Those few seconds of eye contact had given her more serenity than she’d had in ages. A contract of promises in one yearning look had been initiated and she couldn’t have it all fade away now.
Please please please
.

“Alex?” Darla shouted. “
The
Alex? Hey, Josie! Watch for cars!”

Trevor and Joe flashed past her, legs pushing harder, athletic prowess beating out her under-fit form. Alex was bleeding from his cheek, lying motionless, but breathing.

“Don’t move him!” she screeched. “Darla, get my first-aid kit. Under the bathroom sink.”
Treat him like a trauma patient,
she told herself.

Because he was.

He was so damn still, the rise and fall of his chest as he took a breath and the steady trickle of blood from his face wound both the only signs that he was alive. Legs rested on the debris-covered sidewalk; he’d fallen a few feet short of a big stretch of bottle-green glass, someone’s litter from a beer binge gone wrong. Had he fallen in that…

Blood flowed from a cut right along the top of the cheekbone, tearing the soft flesh that framed his eye. Grabbing the edge of her shirt, Josie pressed hard against it, giving it pressure but avoiding moving his neck.

“What can we do?” asked Trevor, Joe standing beside him. “Anything?”

“Should we call 911?” Joe asked. “My phone’s back in the apartment, but I can run and—”

“No 911,” Alex moaned.

“Here!” Darla rasped, placing the frustratingly inadequate first-aid kit on the pavement. She needed to focus, and as she ripped through the kit, she found gauze to press against his gash and staunch the bleeding. Alex rolled from his side onto his back, groaning, changing the pressure she applied, making a small flap of skin peel back. Repositioning her hand, she made sure she pushed hard enough to stop what she now saw was a half-inch rip in the skin.

“Don’t touch him,” Alex whispered, eyes closed. Josie’s heart did a salsa beat in her chest as her mind went into triage mode. He was moving his legs fine, knees up, now resting on his back. His hands and arms seemed safe as he rested his palms against his flat belly. The faded blue t-shirt he wore was yanked up, his bare back against the cracked pavement, and his skin glistened with sweat against the hair covering his muscled belly.

“Don’t touch who?”
Was he delirious?