Sticky Situationship (It’s Complicated)

4. Brock

Brock

“ T hat good?” I call out, rubbing my hands together to keep them warm in the frigid air of the empty engine bay. Behind me, the bay door is wide open to the weekday morning rush hour on Columbus Avenue.

“Yeah.” My best friend, Jake, slow jogs back toward me, along the fifty-foot section of hose extended between us, putting on a show and donning that famous half smile. The one that shows off his trademark dimples. I glance over my shoulder, and sure enough, there’s a tall blonde eyeing him as she saunters past the station.

But she can join the crowd. The woman is one of thousands of female pedestrians who parade across our patch of sidewalk every day, half of whom I swear go out of their way for a regular dose of Jake, AKA Mr. March, from the NYC’s Bravest annual charity calendar.

Libby would never.

Sure, a romance novel usually rests on her nightstand, but I’d bet my last dollar it wouldn’t occur to her in a million years to track down a man in real life. Or stalk him at his work. She’s too busy saving lives to bother.

Although, now that I think about it, that particular skill would come in handy. Because if, by some miracle, Libby was to show up here one day looking for me, I’d likely die of a heart attack.

When Jake is done showboating and finally turns his attention from the woman’s designer jeans-covered ass to the task at hand, I roll my eyes and thrust a tablet in his direction. “All done there?”

“The ladies would eye you, too, if you paid them any attention, you know,” he replies, tapping the passcode on the touchscreen.

I drop to my knees, starting the hose inspection with the brass coupling. “I’m here to work, not flirt.”

“Right,” he says, drawing the word out. “And remind me, when was the last time you had a date, exactly?”

“The coupling is good,” I reply, moving on to the first two feet of polyester covered thermoplastic polyurethane.

He shifts down the hose with me. “And are you still selling your mom on the imaginary girlfriend bit?”

Yes, although I’m not about to admit that to Jake. I still regret blurting out that I was seeing someone, just to get my mother off my back at her birthday party a couple of months ago. But there you have it. I’m a terrible son.

And, because Libby was the first woman who came to mind when my mom and sister started rapid-firing questions at me about my “girlfriend,” I used her characteristics to answer them. Not exact details, of course, mainly because my mom is a physician, too, and would zero in on that fact like a bear on a beehive, but more her character traits and qualities. Like Libby’s endless compassion, her quick wit, that contagious sense of humor, her generosity, and the way she always bites off more than she can chew and then struggles to keep up.

“Well, at least, I know the real reason you don’t date,” Jake says, pulling my attention back to the present. “Your mother may believe you’re in a committed relationship, but really, she has no clue.”

Not this again.

“You know nothing.”

I’ve heard Jake’s long held and completely unfounded theory a dozen times. And no matter what he thinks, it’s still untrue. I run my fingers along the length of the hose, searching for signs of wear and tear when Levi and Mack, two of our fellow firefighters, emerge from the second floor office with inventory clipboards in hand.

“Hey, guys,” Jake calls as they clamber down the stairs. “True or false, our friend Brock, here, is in love with his fuck buddy?”

And just like that, my temper flares hotter than a four alarm blaze in the middle of August. Jake and I have been fast friends since the first day of the Fire Cadet Academy, when we were paired up as rappelling partners. We always have each other’s back. But that doesn’t mean I’m above throwing punches.

“Don’t call her that,” I warn, my voice low and threatening as I sit back on my heels and shoot him a scathing look.

His eyebrow cocks, and I’d love nothing more than to wipe the smirk off his baby face with my fist, but Levi chimes in just then as he and Mack each step over the hose. “Oh, no doubt.”

Asshole. Plus, what would he know about love? He’s basically seeing a new girl every week.

“See?” Jake says, with a triumphant smile. “Everyone knows it but you. And Libby. Oh, and your mom.”

I rub the back of my neck, sensing a migraine coming on. “Are you done?”

“Are you going to admit it’s the truth?”

“I would if it was. Too bad for you, it’s not.”

“I believe you, man,” Mack calls over his shoulder as he and Levi head into the stockroom.

“Thank you, Mack,” I reply, loud enough for him to hear, and relieved at least one person around here believes me.

“Even if you are delusional,” he adds, earning a snicker from Levi.

Seriously?

“As I was saying—” Jake starts.

“Oh, I thought you were done,” I deadpan, cutting him off.

“I’m done with you about as much as you’re done with Libby.”

My grip tightens on the hose.

“She and I have an agreement,” I remind Jake, turning my attention back to the inspection and putting an end to this ridiculous conversation.

“Right,” he says, drawing out the damn word again. “The agreement .”

I wouldn’t be surprised if he was using air quotes the way he says it, but I’m not about to give him any more attention when he’s on a roll as he is this morning.

“And how’s that working out for you, exactly? No strings attached, aside from the regular fucking, of course?”

My fingers curl into fists. But the worst part is, he’s right. I can still remember the minute I tossed out the offer that first night, the way it hung in the air between Libby and me, and the bitter taste in the back of my throat.

Because in that moment, two undeniable truths landed in my gut. First, that the irresistible woman I’d just met would take me up on the offer. And second, casual with a woman like Libby would ruin me. I’m not a casual sort of guy, and to this day, I don’t know what possessed me to suggest it as an option, other than maybe I could tell it was the only way to see her again.

When I don’t answer, Jake sinks onto the gripped steps of the engine in the next bay and stretches out his legs, crossing them casually as if he's got all the time in the world. “And this agreement,” he continues, “it prevents you from seeing other people, right?”

“No,” I reply, shaking my head. He’s got his facts wrong. “That’s not one of the terms.”

“Then why, my friend, have you—an attractive, single, twenty-something with a clean record, a respectable profession, and a steady paycheck—not been on one date since the day you met Libby?”

“That you know of.”

He leans forward and sets the tablet on the concrete floor, suddenly all ears. “You’ve been on a date I don’t know of?”

I consider lying for exactly two point two seconds before I push away the thought and begrudgingly mutter, “No.”

“But you don’t have feelings for Libby?”

There’s not a man alive who could spend even a fraction of the time I’ve spent with Libby, a man who could watch her come undone beneath him, and not feel something for her. Feel loads of things for her. Just not love. “I didn’t say I don’t have feelings for her. I just said I don’t love her.”

“Because it would breach the terms of your agreement.”

“No,” I insist, much too loudly and entirely too quickly.

Jake’s blond eyebrows raise as I stammer to explain. “Because…because…” But I can’t finish my thought. Because the truth is, if I loved Libby, I’d be on a one-way road to heartbreak.

From day one, my brilliant, irresistible neighbor was crystal clear on what she wanted. And what she didn’t. And a boyfriend, hell, a relationship , was at the top of the second list. Libby is laser focused on her training. She’s a driven, high-achieving, detail-oriented Type-A personality who will stop at nothing to pursue her dream.

And I don’t blame her. I just don’t want to think about what will happen when she finishes her residency and is ready to move on. When she’s done with me.

My shoulders drop, and just like that, my anger is gone, evaporated into the biting, dry winter air.

Jake presses off the step and squats across the hose from me on the concrete floor.

“Suggestion for you?” he offers, his voice devoid of the smart aleck tone.

I heave a sigh. “Sure.”

“If you want to change lanes, you need to signal first.”