Just Friends by Robyn Sisman Read Free Book Online Page B

steep—two hundred and fifty dollars.”
    Her hand froze. “I don’t seem to have my checkbook on me right now. Is it okay if I pay you back next week?”
    “Well, of course it is!” What was the matter with her? “Take as long as you like.”
    “Thanks, Jack.” Her face softened, but only for a moment. “I’m sorry about this morning, by the way. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
    It seemed to Jack that her eyebrows arched in a knowing way. He did not care for the insinuation. “That was one of my students,” he said reprovingly.
    “Really? Are you teaching her the ABCs?”
    Jack glowered. “I’ll come and help you get a cab.”
    “No! I mean, thanks, but I think I’ll hop on a bus.” She half turned away, hesitated, then stepped toward him in that decisive, long-legged way she had. They kissed cheeks. “Thanks for the game, and thanks for the bed. See you soon.”
    “See you,” Jack echoed, following her into the hall. He opened the door for her and watched her walk out to the street. Where she was going? Some friend? Another man? She obviously didn’t want to tell him, and he knew better than to ask. Fine. He shut the door.
    Cheese and peanut butter, he thought, with a smidge of piccalilli, corn chips on the side, and an ice-cold beer. Yum. His mouth was already watering. He headed for the kitchen, yanked open the fridge door, and started assembling ingredients. What a mystery women were. He’d known Freya for over ten years, yet she wouldn’t tell him she’d split up with her boyfriend; whereas Michael, whom he’d met about twice and didn’t even like, had told him right away. Men were so straightforward. Jack still didn’t know the exact reasons for the breakup, but it was pretty clear that Michael wasn’t expecting Freya back. When Jack had protested that Freya was sick and needed somewhere to go, Michael had responded, “You’re her friend, you take care of her.”
    Of course, that was impossible. He had a novel to write. Jack ran a forefinger round the inside rim of the peanut butter jar and put it in his mouth: sensational. Anyway, you might as well try to take care of a saber-toothed tiger: Freya did exactly as she pleased, and always had. It was her own fault that she’d never settled into an apartment of her own, claiming that she liked to be “free.” Jack flicked a splodge of piccalilli on top of the cheese, pressed a piece of only slightly stale bread on top to complete his sandwich, and took a large bite. The real conundrum was how Freya and Michael ever got together in the first place. What could she see in a nine-to-five lawyer from one of those tight-assed Midwest states? And the guy had no style. He had actually complained to Jack that the bill at Phood had come to 365 dollars, “not including tip.” Jack chuckled, spraying out a few crumbs. He loved that—Michael’s entire character summed up in three words. In fact, it was so good that he wanted to write it down. Taking his sandwich with him, he walked through to his study so he could scribble a note for his “Ideas” file, a cornucopia of observations, bons mots, and scraps of overheard dialogue that was now actually longer than his novel.
    When he opened the door, the first thing that caught his eye was the narrow divan bed. Normally a repository for papers, dirty laundry, broken electrical equipment, and other random articles, it was now a vision of tidiness. The bedspread lay flat and scrupulously symmetrical; in the exact center was a neat pile of folded sheets, with his striped shirt and a ten-dollar bill on top. Next to the money was a note: “For laundry—F.” Jack picked up the note, smiling at the familiar cryptic signature. What a funny person she was, for all her hoity-toity ways. He remembered all the crazy caffeine-fueled discussions she’d presided over at Ambrosio’s; the surprise party she’d organized for Larry when he got his first job in TV; the scores of old movies the two of them