Ah, perfect. Her windowsill is covered in tiny plants. I didn’t notice those last time I was here. I point at one with leaves and shit. “Hey, is that…a cactus?”
“No. It’s basil. But close.”
“Cool, cool,” I say, and I’m pretty sure basil has nothing in common with desert plants, but that’s good of her to be so chill. I beeline for the windowsill, stopping to pick up a pot from the floor. I set it with the rest of her plant family, keeping myself busy.
“That’s the rosemary,” she says, bright and cheery. Maybe more cheery than usual?
I scratch my jaw as I stare at the plants, then check out a taller one on the floor next to the windowsill. “Is this a fern?” I ask, though I’ve no idea what ferns look like. Green, maybe?
“No. But good guess. The tall one is a ficus. I call him Bob the Ficus. Well, Juliet named him. She gave it to me. Said it’s a starting over plant.” Like me, Rachel is talking a little faster and chirpier than usual.
“Smart move on your sister’s part.” I touch Bob’s waxy leaves. “I’ve been meaning to get a plant,” I say, and that’s a lie. But the more I talk about plants, the less I’ll think about tits. “Do you have to, um, water Bob a lot?”
“I do. Bob gets thirsty. I could use this mug to water him,” she says, extra upbeat.
And hey, if she’s not weird, I don’t need to be weird. Besides, we’ve got plants to discuss. Slowly, I wheel around, successfully keeping my vision locked on hers in a straight line. “That’s perfect because the mug, you know, holds water.”
“One of the nice things about mugs,” she says from across the room.
“Or you can use it to drink coffee, or wine, or really anything. Tea, soda,” I say, then pause to think about more beverages so I don’t think about breasts. “Juice maybe.”
“I don’t like juice. But wine could work,” she says in the same spirit.
It’s like the incident never happened. “Want to break it in?”
“With wine? I mean, sure. I got a delivery.”
I shake my head. “No. I meant to water Bob?”
“Oh, sure. Or you can. To practice for your own Bob,” she offers.
Right. Yeah. I’m getting a Bob, evidently.
She turns into the open-plan kitchen. Since I’m doing well at not staring below her neck, I follow her, stopping at the counter full of boxes while she fusses around with the faucet. She heaves a sigh, then another, finally lasering me with a no-bullshit look. “Carter. This is a mug that says I’m going to pretend I never saw your boobs, right?”
I blink.
“What? No. No way,” I say, sputtering as images rush back to my brain—my lifelong friend, naked on camera, steam rising around her like she’s a goddess. Pale skin that invites kisses. Curves that should be worshiped. Flesh, so much gorgeous flesh that I now know exists under her clothes.
Yes, I’ve always known she’s a woman. But I’ve never thought of her as a woman. A sexy, sensual woman with water sliding down the valley of her breasts. A woman with lush curves and dips and places for my lips to travel.
I am a bad man with a very dirty mind.
But I’m relieved, too, that she’s dealing with the elephant taking up all the space in the tiny kitchen. She’s a better human than I am.
I exhale deeply, admitting…everything. “You’re right. I’ve been making bullshit small talk.”
Chin up, she gives me a tough-girl grin. “So then this is now officially the commemorative I-saw-your-breasts mug.”
I laugh as she plays our mug-naming game. “Exactly. And who cares? We’re friends. It’s fine.”
She shrugs like it’s all no big deal. “It’s totally fine. Let’s water Bob.”
I take the offered mug and head to the thirsty plant. When I’m done, I square my shoulders like I’ve accomplished something amazing. Well, in a way, I have. “I’m ready to be a plant daddy now.”
“There comes a time in every man’s life when he can take that next step. I’m proud of you, Carter.”
You know what? So am I.
It’s taken a mythical creature on a mug, a thirsty plant, and a whole lot of superhuman willpower, but I’m almost free from the new word of the day.
Rearranging her living room helps me even more. Using my body has always calmed my mind. Hell, I could move her couch all day long if I had to. Turn it ninety degrees. Turn it again. Move it here. Move it there. Doesn’t matter. I like to stay active however I can.
As much as I possibly can.
But there’s nothing left to move now that she’s finally got the couch where she wants it, situated with a view of California Street and the city of San Francisco beyond.
She sinks onto the cranberry-colored cushion, patting the seat beside her. “I do love a good sit,” she says.
Sitting is not my speed, but since she’s urging me to join her, I flop down next to her.
Not too close though.
We both stare out the big bay window, drinking in the city that’s always been my home. Even when my parents moved to Los Angeles for a bit—then moved back—this city with its hills and fog, its crooked streets, and impossible-to-keep-up-with restaurants has always called to me.
To Rachel, too, it seems, since she’s returned here.
She sighs happily as we watch the city roll by.
“Perfect,” she says, looking my way with gratitude and a legit smile that I haven’t seen much of recently. When I smile back, she squeezes my shoulder. “It’s completely different from my view the last several years. Which means, it’s what I want.”
“I’m glad you’re here. I’m not glad about what happened, but it’s good you came home,” I say.
She nods resolutely. “Yeah, me too.”
There’s sadness in her voice, but something like possibility too. Maybe a shred of hope. Then she shakes her head, as if she’s shaking off that dangerous emotion. She spins around, her smile real now. “And you’re coming to my breakup party tomorrow. I need it. It’s the real starting over.”
“Of course,” I say. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“The Tata Incident won’t change things, right?” she asks, a touch of worry in her tone.
I scoff. “Hell no.”
“Good,” she says, then moves closer to me and gives me a half hug.
I try. I swear, I try to be good. But my eyes. Those naughty fuckers. They steal a peek at the top of her shirt.
I tear my gaze away before I can undress her again mentally.
I am going to have to run six miles tonight to undo the incident.
But I can forget it. It’s what I need, and it’s clearly what she wants since later that night after a haircut and an eight-mile run—overachiever that I am—there’s a delivery waiting for me at my home.
I’m not good with plant species, but I recognize this one for sure. It’s a forget-my-tits ficus.
The note from Rachel confirms it—Meet Jane.
It’s like the incident never happened. This is for the best, but it also makes me a little…lachrymose.