Truly: Purposefully. It was a purposeful landing.

Charlotte: Own it.

32

The next morning as I run in the park, I call my sister, who’s usually between classes at this time of day in London. Talking to her is always a good reminder of why I do what I do—why I bust my ass, work hard, and keep things on the level.

Or rather, why I’m going to stay on the good-boy side forever.

“Hey, you! What’s going on?” she asks when she answers.

“What would you do if you really wanted something but couldn’t have it?”

“Like strawberries? Because you know I break out in a rash when I eat them.”

“Sure. Yeah. Good analogy.”

She laughs, a little surprise in her tone. “I don’t eat them.”

“It’s that simple?”

“Jason. Of course it’s that simple. But I don’t think you’re asking me about strawberries.”

“Hell, was it that obvious?”

“As obvious as the fact that all cats ignore humans. So, who is the girl you can’t have?”

I heave a sigh, slowing my pace so I can share this. “Best friend’s sister. But it’s okay. I have it under control. I’m fine. I’m not even thinking about her.”

“Are you sure? Because you called me to talk about her. Well, strawberries. But I suspect she’s the strawberries.”

“Fine. You can see right through me. She’s definitely the strawberries, and I will just pretend I have a strawberry allergy. It works for you.”

“Mine’s real, you twit.”

“Sure, right. And it works for you too. It’s exactly what you need to resist strawberries. Therefore, I now have a strawberry allergy.”

“But you don’t have a strawberry allergy,” she insists.

“Of course not. And I’d never make light of one either. But perhaps I’ve just recently developed a dire reaction to . . .” I imagine the woman I want, the way she smells, her breezy scent. “Fresh air.”

When Truly and I go to jujitsu the next night, I keep my fresh-air allergy at the top of my mind. I’m not rude to fresh air. I don’t ignore fresh air. I might even praise fresh air for how excellently she executes all sorts of moves, especially when she and Presley go at it during a demo on the mat. Not going to lie. A cat fight is fun as hell to watch, even when it’s staged.

“Grab her hair!” I call out. See, that’s friendly.

“I’ll grab your hair next time,” Presley says to me in a huff.

I grin and throw out, “Scratch her back!”

“I’m not going to scratch your back, Jason,” Presley shouts.

“You’re a terrible sport.”

“I’m not scratching your back either,” Truly says.

Well, I can’t resist that. “You mean . . . again. You’re not scratching it again.”

When they finish the demo, Truly’s look says I’m in trouble, and she challenges, “Back-scratching?”

“I meant it in a friendly way.”

“Then please note I mean this in a friendly way: you make a terrible cheerleader. Your peanut gallery comments are the worst,” Truly says.

“It’s because I don’t have pom-poms,” I say.

Truly tries to rein in a laugh, and so does Presley. There. See. All is well.

When it’s my turn to demo with Truly, we work on grappling on the floor and I’m all business. A total pro all through class and as we finish.

And I valiantly resist catching a whiff of the delicious fresh air when we leave class, say goodbye to Presley, and visit another pub that night.

I am the master of this zone.

When Truly spins efficiently on her heel, regarding the surroundings and rattling off all the elements of the pub that work (dark wood, types of beers, tankards) and those that don’t (the TV is too close to the pool table, and when a match is on, you can’t hear your friends—plus, pubs are supposed to be warm, homey environments that enable conversations), I tell her I’m giving her an A-plus.

“You have mastered all things pub.”

“I’ll take my pub master badge, thank you very much. And I’m ready. I’m going to nail this presentation like a sixteen-year-old gymnast going for Olympic gold.”

“Or as Eddie the erstwhile best man would say, you’re going to nail it like a showgirl being banged behind a pinball machine.”

Truly arches a brow. “Hmm. That does sound like a promising way to bang, but I’ll stick with the gymnast analogy. Or how about this? Like a hammer on the head?”

“That’s a good one too.” I congratulate myself for resisting hammering innuendos, abstaining from nailing, and sidestepping all banging double entendres. Not even tempted, because they’d make me break out in hives due to my sudden onset fresh-air sensitivity. “And let me know how it goes tomorrow. I want a full report.”

“You’ll get one.” She takes a breath, seems to study my face. Her voice lowers to that tender volume that tries to hook into a part of me I don’t want hooked. “Jason?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for everything. I feel ready . . . because of you. I appreciate everything you’ve done. And we have your final wedding this weekend. I hope this exchange has been helpful for you too.”

“It’s been great. And we’ll nail the wedding. Speaking of nailing it, how good are we at nailing this friend-zone thing?”

She smiles softly. “We’re the best. We’re definitely nailing the friend zone.”

“Like you wanted,” I say, a slight question in my voice that I immediately wish I could strip out. But maybe she won’t notice.