Page 35 of It Happened on a Sunday
“It got you to text me, didn’t it? Even if it did take you four days to answer my question.”
“Actually, it got Pauline to steal my phone and text you. I didn’t notice she’d done it until this morning.”
“Pauline?” I ask, trying to place the name.
“Pauline Vargus. She very much enjoyed your choice of ice cream parlor.”
“Are you telling me Pauline Vargus helped you eat that sundae? And then texted me about it?” Shock slams through me. “ThePauline Vargus?”
“You’re sounding a little overstimulated there, Sly.” There’s a teasing quality to her voice I can’t help but respond to. “Exactly how many of us singers do you want to go out with?”
That startles a laugh out of me. “Just you, Sloane. But you’ve got to admit, Pauline’s still got it.”
“Oh, there’s never been any doubt about that.”
She doesn’t say anything else. Now that I’m over my shock about Pauline Vargus being the one to text me, I’ve got to clarify, “So what you’re saying is you never would have texted me on your own, even though you asked for my phone number.”
I make a right turn onto the highway and can’t help noticing that several news vans are following directly behind me. I decide to ignore them, mainly because there’s not a lot else I can do. Besides, everyone’s got to make a living.
“That was a mistake on my part,” she finally says.
“Fair enough,” I respond as I change lanes, making sure to keep my speed at the normal limit. The last thing I need is an article in tomorrow’s papertalking about how Sloane Walker’s“boyfriend” is a reckless driver. “I really am sorry, Sloane. If there’s something you think I can do to make this better, just tell me. Whatever it is, I’m happy to do it, even if it means not talking to you again.”
My stomach clenches at the thought.
“I didn’t say that.” For the first time, she sounds just a little bit flustered. “I’m just saying you could have gone with an email or a phone call or maybe a bouquet of flowers if you really wanted to put in some effort.”
“You didn’t give me your email,” I reply. “And I sent four bouquets of flowers last week, withmyphone number included on every card, just in case you lost the one you got from my agent. I didn’t get so much as a ‘fuck off’ from any of them. At least with the sundae I got a text fromPauline.”
She laughs. “You’re going to live on that for the rest of your life, aren’t you?”
“I plan to put it on my tombstone,” I shoot back. “I mean, Pauline Vargus texted me. Who wouldn’t ride that high?”
“I—” She breaks off for a second, and when she starts speaking again I can’t help noticing her voice has warmed up another couple of degrees. Looks like my abuela was right: women really do love flowers. “Wait. You sent flowers? Where?”
“I had them sent to your venue and hotel both times, hoping you’d see them somewhere.”
“You’re telling me you sent them to the hotel I’m at right now?” she asks, sounding skeptical. “Do you even know which one it is?”
“I know how to google,” I answer dryly as I change lanes again. “The last time I sent them was to the Venetian yesterday.”
“Hold on,” she tells me, then a few seconds later asks, “What do the flowers look like?”
“One set is purple calla lilies—”
“Calla lilies?” she repeats a little breathlessly. “How’d youfigure…”
She breaks off, and then, at the same time, we both say, “Abuela Ximena.”
I’ve always known my abuela was worth her weight in glitter, but it turns out she’s one hell of a wing woman, too. I’ll have to make sure to thank her the next time I see her.
“The other is a black-and-red arrangement,” I add. “For obvious reasons.”
She laughs, and there’s some rustling on the other line, followed by, “Oh! I found them both. They were buried behind a giant arrangement of roses.”
Not going to lie, that stings the pride a little bit. Note to self, send agargantuanarrangement next time. Apparently five dozen flowers isn’t enough to stand out in the world Sloane Walker inhabits.
“They’re pretty,” she says after a minute. “Thank you.”
