“It’s like,”—Janie started to laugh, obviously with frustration—“I’m that cockroach in Kafka’s Metamorphosis. I can’t even get up.”
Nico broke away and, giving Janie a huge grin, easily lifted her. Before allowing her to cross to the group, he pulled her into a hug first, smoothing his hand down her back. “You are not a cockroach, Janie. Sei molto simpatica, incantevole, e bellissima.”
Janie seemed to melt into his embrace, and she sighed. Or maybe that was me. Or maybe that was all of us.
“I don’t even care what you said. You might’ve called me a dumpster fire and I would never know.” Janie leaned away and grinned up at him with stars in her eyes.
He pushed her hair back from her face and returned her grin. “I said, ‘You are sweet, charming, and very beautiful.”’
And then I was pretty sure we all sighed.
Even Roscoe.
Chapter Seven
Youth Detention Center: Also known as a juvenile detention center (JDC), A secure prison or jail for persons under the age of majority, to which they have been sentenced and committed for a period of time, or detained on a short-term basis while awaiting court hearings and/or placement in such a facility or in other long-term care facilities and programs. Juveniles go through a separate court system, the juvenile court, which sentences or commits juveniles to a certain program or facility.
—Snyder, H. & Sickmund, M. (March 2006). "Juvenile Offenders and Victims: 2006 National Report"
**Kat**
Waiting for lunch Thursday afternoon was just as difficult as it had been last week. Like last week, I’d come into work early, just in case lunch took longer than anticipated. I watched the clock on my computer, glancing at it every three minutes or so. I tried to focus on work. I failed.
But I’d anticipated this and had worked late into the evening on Wednesday, writing emails and saving them in my drafts folder, finishing projects, and preparing the final documents for the Friday staff meeting.
What did help keep me distracted was looking over my list of reckless choices on my phone. Reading the list was unexpectedly cathartic. It helped me refocus. It also helped dampen any silly shards of optimism I’d been carrying around that Dan might one day return my feelings.
Just keeping it real, I had a lot of what was often colloquially referred to as “baggage.”
I had so much baggage, I could’ve opened a Samsonite outlet store.
Therefore, rather than fulfillment, happiness, and/or true love, I’d decided to settle for functioning member of society; that was my goal.
The first time I filed my taxes was the happiest day of my life up to that point. It felt like a victory. I threw myself a wine and cheese party, but without the wine, and spent the weekend binge-watching Doctor Who.
I was also a steadfast realist. No one with any sense—and especially not someone as amazing as Daniel O’Malley—would ever accept or deal with all my baggage. Who had that kind of room in their life? No house contained that many closets.
Moving on.
Finally, the time was nigh. Locking my computer and grabbing the bag with Dan’s lemon loaves, I let Ms. Opal know I was leaving and made my way to the elevators, feeling remarkably calm.
My plan was to give Dan the list, allow him several minutes to read it, answer any questions he might have, and then—if he still wished to help me—I would explain the situation with my cousin and what Dan could expect from my vindictive family member.
I would be cool and collected. I would be marble.
But then, as the elevator doors opened on the lobby, the first thing I saw was him.
Dan.
Twenty feet away.
Leaning against one of the rectangular pillars, arms crossed, eyes aimed at me.
I hesitated.
He smirked. But not a jerky-smirk. It was an amused smirk. Even from this distance his eyes looked warm and teasing.
I reminded myself of the list, but it didn’t help. In fact, it made me want to stay put, allow the doors to close and carry me back to my floor. His eyes narrowed, the smirk falling away, giving me the impression he suspected I was about to do just that.
And wouldn’t that make me a selfish jerk? Here he was, helping me, and I was going to flee because I was too much of a scaredy-cat to own up to who I was? No. No, no, no.
No.
Gathering a bracing breath, I stepped out of the elevator and walked directly to him, my spine straight, my head held high. His smirk returned and his eyes swept over me as I approached.
Before I could decide whether to greet him with a handshake (would that be weird?), hand him the lemon loaves, or employ a succinct head nod, he leaned forward, slid an arm around my waist, and placed a soft kiss on my cheek.