Page 6 of Rosie and the Dreamboat
He’s smiling again, I know it. “I like you, Rosie Clamshell. Half the people I rescue in a day seem to be naked. Why’s everybody so goddamn nude all the time?”
“We’re heathens.”
“Heathens! Am I wasting my life, going around fully clothed?”
What is possibly a trickle of sweat runs down from my brow. “Depends. That uniform is pretty nice. Is that what you’re wearing now?”
“Oh, she’s getting flirty! What am I wearing?” He laughs and laughs, and his palm slaps the lid above me, like he’s helpless. It rains condensation droplets onto me. “I’m wearing a skintight fireman stripper outfit, made of flammable material.”
I remember his momentarily subdued tone when his colleague put him in his place. “I just objectified you. Sorry.”
He replies fondly, “You are not. Everybody does it. It’s my cross to bear. So, why’re you in this thing, anyway? You needed some really expensive relaxin’?”
“My sister got a promotion, so I treated her to this day of pampering. But this has gone very much par for the course for me.”
“Ohhhh. Am I speaking with a hot mess?” He seems to sense my nod. “I’m a professional hot mess wrangler, so don’t even sweat it. This isn’t even the weirdest thing I’ve seen this week.”
“Really? I’m so embarrassed.”
“The salon can be embarrassed. This isn’t your fault.”
His absolute authority does make me feel better. But I can’t help sighing.
“It’s just typical. I’ve lost a button and an earring already. There’s two tanks, but Bree didn’t get into this one. She’s the clever, competent sister, after all. We probably should have tried harder to make her stay.” I fall silent, and when he doesn’t reply, my heart bumps in my chest. “Are you still there?”
“I’m still here. Frank texted; he says they’re getting the salon owner on the phone.” A faint notification chimes, followed by an impressed whistle. “Earthquake at a bakery? That wasn’t on my bingo card. My group chat is the gift that keeps on giving.”
“Have you already posted a picture of this flotation tank?”
“Say cheese!”
“Ha ha. Please keep distracting me.” I reach my hands up to touch the lid, and it releases a shower of stinging salt condensation droplets onto my face. “Ugh, the salt is brutal. Can you estimate if it will be much longer?”
“Not much longer at all,” he lies cheerfully.
I remember Frank’s words. “Your job is to work your magic and keep us poor naked dopes calm. He said you’re the PR department.”
“It’s my superpower. I can talk paint off a wall. Ask my ma—she’ll tell ya.” He falls silent, then says, “PR department. I have a bad feeling it means ‘Pretty Romeo.’ When I snap and strangle them all, I want you as my character witness. Tell them all how close I was to cracking.”
“That makes two of us. Any updates?” My voice is thin with nerves.
“I’ll check.” He has a phone conversation that goes like this: “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Bye.” He hangs up. “Well.Franksays thatDionnesays that thesalon ownersays they will sue the fire department if we so much as put a scratch on this fucking contraption. But someone from the clamshell company who speaks English is going to call back any minute.”
I think of how Dionne’s eyes slid over me in the waiting room. I’m not worth as much as this thing. “They don’t seem to be concerned about me suing.”
“They’re hoping you’re a little sweetie who won’t make a fuss. But lawyer up, baby. I’ll be your witness. We can go to the Maldives after it’s all done.”
“How did we become each other’s courtroom witness so fast?”
His tone is rich with amusement. “I really have no idea. Maybe we could represent each other, too.”
“No need. My sister’s a lawyer. She’s single, by the way.”
There’s no other word for it: hescoffs. “Are you trying to set me up with her? Because I saw her true colors. Nothing could drag me from your side, Rosie Clamshell.”
“You’re paid to do this,” I remind him, laughing. “And I’m glad my Valentine’s Day couple’s retreat isn’t completely wasted.”
“Ohhhh! It’s Valentine’s Day? It all makes sense now.”
