Lost on the Way Read online

  “Yes.” Yara talks to me without glancing up from her phone. “That’s the plan. You’ll see how things go this week with Jason. But if he makes it clear he’s all about the friend zone, then next weekend, you are going to ask out Dave.”

  I eyeball her, not sure I’m liking her plan at all. She holds her hand up to stop an argument that’s not even coming out of my mouth. “You can ask him for drinks after work. Keep it casual. You do the casual friend thing better than anybody.”

  Great. I sit up and drink my lukewarm coffee. “At least there’s something I do best.”

  She lets out a half-laugh while scrolling the captivating device in her hand.

  “Jason’s going to want to still be just friends, isn’t he?”

  She doesn’t say a word, transfixed by news, or maybe Instagram, but she does reach over to squeeze my hand.

  “Shit. What if last night screws up our friendship?” A sense of dread now mingles with nausea.

  “There’s no way. The two of you have been through hell together. More than once. It might be awkward for a while, but there’s no way one night of drunken sex is going to ruin your friendship.”

  I curl up into a ball on my side as I nibble on my bagel, hoping with all my being that Yara’s right on this one. Jason’s my best friend. I don’t want to lose him.

  She slides off the bed to go to the bathroom and pauses at the door.

  “What I find shocking is that it’s taken this long for the two of you to do the deed. It was bound to happen at some point. Now it’s behind you. If anything, it’s gonna deepen your friendship. If the two of you aren’t dating by the end of this week, which I still maintain might happen.”

  She’s got her hand on her hip and waves her index finger at me, all boss-like.

  OK, Yara.

  Chapter 3

  Jason

  The Day We Met

  The first time I parked in the Norris Cotton Cancer Center parking lot, the whole moment felt surreal. A referral to an oncologist. What college student needs an oncologist? I have an appointment with an oncologist is about as unexpected out of a college student’s mouth as Oh, yes, I know him. He’s my cardiologist.

  The imposing white building, accented with green, looks like any hospital. A big asphalt parking lot surrounds the building, with ten handicapped parking spots near the front entrance and an American flag on a towering stainless steel pole.

  When I first got the diagnosis, I did some online research. The Dartmouth Medical Center is respected. No reason to travel far to other doctors. At least not based on what I knew at that time.

  An elderly volunteer behind a desk greeted people who didn’t know where to go. Her smile brought back memories of my grandmother. And a yearning for my parents. I pushed that down and found my way to the correct waiting room.

  The waiting room for my doctor looked like any other. Uncomfortable matching chairs with small tables holding stacks of magazines. I signed in with the woman behind the window and sat down in a chair beside a table. The magazine selection sucked. That’s when I noticed the girl sitting a couple of chairs away focused on her Kindle.

  At first, I wanted to ask her about the electronic device. They were kind of new at the time, and I wanted to know how she liked it. But she never looked up. So, I watched her.

  Her dark-brown hair fell around her shoulders, partially covering her face. She wore a black dress—or maybe it’s called a jumper—but it was short and fell mid-thigh, exposing lean, long, toned legs. She wore ankle boots with worn brown leather. The toes of the boots were a lighter color as if they’d been worn a lot. An oversized black cardigan hid her arms and chest. She laughed at something in her book, and that was when I noticed the shine of her lip gloss. She had this girl-next-door vibe.

  She shifted in her seat. It wasn’t until she adjusted her legs that I saw her brown leather slouchy bag below her chair. The Dartmouth button on the strap was my first clue that we shared something in common.

  She raised her head, and I pointed to her bag. “You go to Dartmouth?”

  Her pale pink lips spread into a friendly, warm smile. “Yes. You?”

  “Freshman.”

  She startled me when she stood, picked up her bag, and sat beside me. The two of us were the only ones in the waiting room. We could have continued our conversation sitting a few seats apart. It was a waiting room, after all. Cordial, distant conversation would have exceeded all social expectations.

  After getting situated in the seat directly beside mine, she continued to smile. “What’s your major?”

  Yes, we sat in an oncology waiting room, and she asked about my major. “Undecided.”

  “Me too.” She glanced down the hall, as if searching for someone, then returned her attention to me.

  We talked about classes, dorms, and our upcoming first New Hampshire winter. Being from Missouri, she wasn’t too worried. Same for me, since I grew up in Connecticut.

  I almost asked her for her number that day. She kept talking and laughing, and I sat there, entranced. She had this healthy glow. Maybe it was just her sun-kissed tan. It was late fall and not that warm, but she looked like someone who spent a lot of time outside. She had a light sprinkling of freckles dusting her cheekbones. Freckles scatter across my entire body, over pale skin, so I always notice freckles.

  She talked about missing her parents. She never asked me if I missed mine. If she had, I would’ve told her I missed them more than she could ever imagine. If I would’ve answered honestly, which I doubt I would have.

  She didn’t press me with questions. It made the conversation easy. I had this feeling she and I were going to be friends. Right when I got around to pulling out my phone so I could tap in her number, a nurse with wire-rimmed spectacles stood before us.

  “Mr. Longevite?”

  Yeah, lady. I’m as shocked as you are that I’m here right now.

  Before following the nurse down the hallway, I turned back to the brown-eyed, sun-kissed girl. “Nice to meet you, Maggie. Hope to see you around.”

  It wasn’t until I was down the hall that I worried about her. We didn’t ask each other why we were sitting in an oncology waiting room. I remember thinking if she’s here for cancer, please let her kind be totally beatable.

  Chapter 4

  Maggie

  Monday morning, I’m sitting at my desk, tapping away on my keyboard, working on a grant. The weekend passed with radio silence from Jason. I could have reached out, and probably should have, but I didn’t know what to say. And, given his silence says a whole lot about his thoughts on what happened, then some space is good. Good because when we do speak, I need to squelch these emotions and play it cool. Our friendship is what’s most important, and I can’t lose sight of that.

  There’s a tap on my door, and when I glance away from my monitor, I stand so abruptly my chair goes flying backward into the wall.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Therese’s clutching a tissue, dabbing her flushed, blotchy, wet cheeks. We work together at The McLoughlin Charity, and both of us also volunteer at a nearby hospice center. We find ourselves holding back tears many times a day. We thrive on knowing we are helping others, but that doesn’t make our work any easier. Today, though, Therese isn’t keeping her emotions in check. Something serious has happened.

  She steps into my office and blows her nose. The sound is muffled, and I grab the tissue box off my desk and take it to her. “Therese?”

  “I just got a call from hospice. Johnny.” Her lips bunch up, more tears fall, and I pull her into my arms and rub her back. She doesn’t need to say anything else. Patients in hospice don’t have a lot of time left. We know this when we meet them. And, usually, we do a good job of helping them live while they can and face what’s about to happen. We do this and find the joy in being there for them in their last days. And yes, there is joy in those last days. So many times, there’s so much love. We’re all going to die. Some of us just have a more definitive timeline tha
n others. But there’s something about seeing family and friends come together. My personal favorite is when I hear laughter. And the sharing of memories. The love, at times, is almost tangible.

  Life is temporary for all of us, but when faced with the end is when it seems we value it most. That’s one thing spending time in both a hospital and hospice has given me. An awareness of the importance of living in the moment, of being present. Appreciating all the small things, the everyday normal. Life is too short to live for trips or celebrations. As my grandmother used to say, life’s too short to only break out the fine china on holidays. Hospice reminds me every day is the day you should use the china you like best.

  Therese agrees. Even so, sometimes the wall protecting our heart from the accompanying sadness of a life ending crumbles, especially when the patient hasn’t yet lived a full life. It’s tough when the whole entire situation is tragic.

  Johnny entered hospice at age seven. His death hits too close to home for Therese because she lost one of her daughters when she was around the same age.

  Therese clings to me, sniffling, doing her best to pull it together. She needs this moment to break down, to let some of the emotion out.

  “Hey, why don’t I take your shift this evening, huh?”

  She grabs a fresh tissue and dabs her face. “Yeah? You’re not volunteering at Bellevue tonight?”

  “Not tonight.” I volunteer sporadically at the hospital, sometimes popping in to see if any kid is alone and up for a game.

  “I might call Dr. Joyner and see if she has any openings. I feel like things are building up.” I nod in understanding. When emotions swirl, they can weigh us down. Make us feel like we’re drowning. Sometimes we just have to open up and talk about it. Drain the overflow before it becomes too much. Dr. Joyner is a therapist we both see, although I don’t go to see her as frequently as Therese. Therese is brokenhearted over Johnny, but there are other sources for the tidal flow of emotions cascading through her right now. I get it.

  I pull her back into my arms for another hug as Jason steps into the office doorway holding a white bakery box. I watch him over Therese’s shoulder then squeeze her tight and step back. He lifts the box slightly, a silent offering.

  Our New York offices consist of a suite in an office building on the Upper West Side. We’re not that close to Columbia, where Jason works, but he walks here all the time. As an assistant professor, he has considerable flexibility in his hours.

  The movement captures Therese’s attention. She sniffles and smiles.

  “Jason. Hi.” She swipes at the tears on her cheeks. “Thanks, Mags.” The corners of her lips turn up into a sad smile. “I’ll leave you two. Good to see you, Jason.”

  Jason stands to the side of the office door, his chestnut hair a disheveled mess, awkwardly holding out the white box like a peace offering. A sense of relief fills me. He’s here. I can’t help but notice the wrinkled lines on the corners of his eyes. He looks older…tired.

  “Did you bring me doughnuts?”

  He opens the box top, displaying half a dozen doughnuts. Half have blue icing, and half have chocolate icing. “I didn’t know what kind of mood you’d be in.”

  I step around him and close my office door for privacy, then take a seat in one of the black plastic scoop chairs in front of my desk while gesturing for Jason to take the other seat. He sets the box on my desk and sits down. He’s wearing a slightly rumpled, blue pin-striped dress shirt, black dress slacks, and bright blue running shoes with orange laces. I fully expect he’s the most popular professor at Columbia just because he has this way of dressing with a twist. At first glance, he could pass for any other businessman, but then you take that second look and see so much more. He’s always wearing running shoes. And he has floppy, coppery hair and freckles that almost blend into each other, and his rugged, square jaw. He’s got a short beard right now, but his facial hair is in a constant state of evolution. In a week or two, he’ll shave it off, and within a day, he’ll sport the gruff, unshaven look.

  Over the years, I’ve had friends tell me that he doesn’t have much of a personality, and I can’t for the life of me understand why they would think that. He doesn’t like to talk much, and often bears a somber expression, but his pale skin unmasks his emotions. He flushes red when angry or excited or amused. He might be guarded, but he’s enormously sensitive and vulnerable. And right now, that vulnerability is abundantly evident. His tawny irises flick around the room, tentative, and his right thumb and index finger tap his leg. In the last sixty seconds, he’s crossed an ankle over his leg and put it back down on the floor multiple times.

  I sit up, cross my legs, and wait. I could make this easy on him, make him feel at home, but I need to know what he’s thinking. Something big happened between us, and if I jump to conclusions, I might throw away any chance for more.

  He pushes the doughnut box toward me. He seems sad, apologetic, and uncertain. “Doughnut?” His sweet gesture softens the harder feelings I’d been holding in. Any anger or hurt I’d bottled up diminishes. I sit on my hands to prevent jumping out of my chair and wrapping him in a hug.

  I shake my head. I do appreciate the gesture, but I don’t want a doughnut. He looks down at the floor. He brought me doughnuts. I should drop this. Let it go. But I can’t.

  “So, you bring doughnuts to all the girls after you sleep with them and don’t call?”

  His head snaps up, and his pale cheeks flush crimson. “Mags. It wasn’t…” He runs his hand through his hair and stands, then paces back and forth in my office. He stops and stands before me with his hands shoved in his pockets. “I didn’t know what to say. I should have reached out this weekend. I just…that night…it just…”

  “It just what?”

  “It shouldn’t have happened.”

  I close my eyes for a moment. Of course, that’s how he feels. He doesn’t see me as anything more than a friend. I’m not his type. I know this. I exhale and smile up at him. “Yeah, how did we get so drunk? Crazy, right? I was so hungover on Saturday. Sunday too. Two-day hangover. Unreal—” He bends down, and his hand on my knee shuts me up.

  “Are we okay? We gotta be okay, Mags,” he pleads. He’s as torn up as I am over this, only he’s worried solely about our friendship. I’m the one who has been hoping. A low amount of hope, though. Miniscule, really. If he wanted more, he would have acted differently the morning after. He would have called or texted.

  “We’re good. Let us never speak about it again.”

  He sits down and holds out his hand with a relieved smile. “Shake on it. Never again.”

  “Yep. Never again,” I mutter as I get up, ignoring his extended hand, and round my desk to sit in my seat. “Now that we’ve put this behind us, get on out of here. I’m sure you’ve got papers to grade or students to tutor or something.”

  I tap at a few keys on my keyboard to bring up some research I had found to reference in the grant I’m in the middle of working on.

  He raps my desk with his fist. “I can see you’re busy, so I’ll go. Want to get together after work? Grab dinner? Your pick.”

  Me picking sort of goes without saying. He always makes me pick, and I sit there making suggestions until his facial reaction communicates positive receptivity. A fun little “guess what Jason’s in the mood for” game we play.

  “I can’t. I’m volunteering tonight.”

  “You do Tuesday and Thursday evenings,” he says in a questioning tone.

  “Tonight I’m covering for Therese. We had a patient pass away, and she’s sort of torn up over it. That’s what she was upset about.”

  “She was upset?”

  I glance up and notice the crimson shade has spread to his ears. “What?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t put yourself through that.”

  “Through what?” This is not a new argument. I know what he’s going to say. I shouldn’t have even responded to him.

  “You’ve got to move past Adam.”

 
; My mouth gapes open, and I breathe through it as I struggle for ample oxygen. That’s something he has never, ever said to me before. “What are you talking about?”

  He stands over my desk, his hands balled into fists, his neck now red too. Holy shit. Not only is he serious, but he’s also emotional.

  To get clarification, I ask, “You think I volunteer at a hospice center because I’m not over Adam?”

  He stares back, silent, but the muscles in his jaw visibly flex as he grinds his teeth.

  “Seriously? That’s what you think? Jason. He died twelve years ago.”

  “Yes. And you are still mourning him. I think you should consider seeing a therapist.”

  My fingers clench the armrests to stop myself from leaping out of my seat in frustration. I could throttle him. “Me? Me? I should see someone? I do see a therapist. I love going to my therapist. I don’t believe I could be in my line of work unless I did talk it out with someone regularly. But what about you? Have you ever seen a therapist, Jason? Ever?”

  He thrusts his hands into his pants pockets and glares at me, his lips protruding almost in a pout. It would be cute except he’s being such an ass. We glare at each other until his shoulders collapse.

  “I’m worried about you. It has to be so hard on you to grow close to people and lose them. I know what you went through. And I worry about you.”

  All my anger dissipates. Within seconds, I’m around my desk and we’re holding each other, and he kisses the top of my head the way he loves to do, in a big brother way.

  “I love you, Mags. I want you to be happy.”

  I breathe him in. His woodsy, earthy, familiar scent.