It's Different This Time

by Joss Richard

He’s attractive, and not in a “Is he hot or is he just tall?” way.

There’s a wide range of clientele that comes through these doors, but an attractive guy who buys books for his mom and sister? I’m only human.

“I sometimes sing in the shower…but I can control myself.” “Don’t,” he says intently,

“Favorite month?” I raise my eyebrow. He stops the fast pacing of our back-and-forth and looks at me. He’s been looking at me, but now it feels different. “Still June,” he says, and I realize I’m holding my breath.

than I remember. It’s like meeting someone who’s on TV—you

you know more than you want to admit about their physical appearance, but it’s hard to believe they’re really in front of you.

There’s something gratifying about how life on the West Coast is slower, but the electricity that flows through Manhattan is unmatched.

I didn’t realize I was homesick for a place that I refused to think of as home.

It’s a strange feeling, being

happy for someone and at the same time knowing they got all they wanted the minute you left their life.

“Like what?” he says, unimpressed, a pec muscle twitching as he wipes his forehead with his shirt in hand.

“Nope.” I keep my eyes on the book, reading the same line over and over again until he’s out of the room.

A chef is someone who makes a recipe, a cook is someone who follows it,

she says in a high-pitched voice that sounds like my IQ is much lower than it is.

“Hey, I only know the version of Adam that lives here. I don’t know what you’re like on dates. I don’t know whose texts you’re not responding to and what girls you’re making cry.”

She still likes to say that she lives in New York since it’s only a train ride away, and I’ll never pass up an opportunity to tease her about it.

Between the dogs, big and small, being walked along Bleecker and the crisp September air combating steam rising from the construction chimneys, it’s difficult to not romanticize my life while being here.

a tall figure in my peripheral view walks through the front door. A figure that my subconscious seems trained to spot,

I don’t know when it happened, this shift in our dynamic. We went from being roommates to genuine friends.

Even middle-aged women at the grocery store seemed flustered when he made small talk at the checkout line.

If anyone is wondering, it is possible to break up with someone in eight subway stops.

Up ahead I see a local’s nightmare, but exactly what one would picture when you say Christmastime in New York City.

I bump his knee, and he bumps mine back, but once we make contact he doesn’t move it, and I don’t want him to.

“You know, despite being just friends”—he pulls me up from the bench and we walk over to the skate rental booth—“this is still the best date.” “Why?” “Because I know that whatever happens tonight, you’re still coming home with me.” He winks.

I’ve been in New York for one whole week. There isn’t a view of palm trees lining the street, it’s far from eighty-degree weather, and instead of salt water, you’re more likely to get a whiff of a Nuts 4 Nuts cart.

“Shut up. Isn’t this what your twenties is all about? Doing stupid shit so you have stories to tell in your thirties?”

I just don’t usually put myself in situations where anyone can approach me, or I can approach them.

It’s a look that I suppose is reserved for friends. But I know we’re more than that. I just don’t know what.

These past few hours, I felt like a missing puzzle piece that was suddenly found and placed in its right spot.

Everything about the Harpers feels like I’ve stumbled into a sitcom family, and I don’t want to change the channel.

The warmth of his cup feels different from mine, like knowing it belongs to him subconsciously alters my brain chemistry.

“This kind of feels like the last place I’m going to see before I get thrown into a van,”

In an instant, whatever walls I had up begin to shatter like waves crumbling a sandcastle.

It’s not even from memory—it’s like he’s a pianist tuning my body to create the perfect note.

Adam is the only person who has never said they’re proud of me, like being proud means he somehow doubted my achievements.

“Yeah, but movies? That’s totally different.” I shake my head. “Besides, I don’t want people seeing my face that close up.” I laugh.

“No, I don’t think so.” “Good,” he says. “You’re too good for him.” I laugh. “He’s like your best friend.” “No, you’re my best friend.”

Today’s June doesn’t care, and I decide to not let the unknown ruin the cloud I’m on.

I’ve learned through experience that having a slot before lunch is always a good thing, because it gives producers something to think about while they eat.

Looking at Adam is like watching one of my favorite comfort movies—I already know every line like the back of my hand, so now I look for the smallest details I may have missed the first time around.

“What’s my favorite color?” I ask, and he coughs out a laugh. “What?” “Nothing, I just didn’t know we were in fifth grade.” “Hey, if you don’t remember, then—” “Purple growing up,” he answers. “But in college, you changed it to forest green because you felt that was more mature.” He looks at me.

But he’s staring back at me with a smile on his face, and I feel like a bottle of carbonated soda someone shook, a wave of euphoria bubbling up within me, about to explode.

“Adam and I sleeping together is your good karma?” I say. “For what?” “For all the assholes I dated. For living in Connecticut. For that time I worked overtime when Beyoncé had that surprise concert in Times Square.”

My eyes travel to Adam, who looks uncomfortable with this whole conversation. But I’m waiting for his answer with bated breath, because we haven’t really spoken to each other in weeks. I’m desperate for any type of exchange with him.

Instead of feeling upset that he wants to spend his next chapter with someone else, I’m hurt that he couldn’t even tell me. That I’m no longer relevant in his life.