Page 24 of Snowed In
“Look, I get where you’re coming from,” she says finally. “I do. But I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”
“Neither am I.” At least not a real one. I don’t think I could handle something serious for a while. It’s been nothing but one breakup after another these last few years, and I’ll admit it, I’m tired. But something like this? With a controlled outcome and clear communication? It’s all of the benefits and none of the pain. “I’m not trying to trick you,” I tell her. “I’m asking for your help to make the next few weeks a little more bearable for me, and I hope a little more bearable for you. I’m completely serious.”
“I think that’s what I find most confusing. What are we going to do? Show up and hold hands? No one’s going to believe that.”
“Why not?”
“Because we barely know each other?”
“People meet people all the time,” I remind her. “Theygetto know each other.”
I hear her sigh, but she doesn’t hang up. Doesn’t sound so mad anymore either.
“Just give me a shot,” I say. “For old time’s sake.”
“Oldtime’s sake?”
“Yeah. Where’s your village loyalty?”
“In the village graveyard,” she mutters, but she hesitates. “I guess it would be nice to have a date for my mother’s party,” she adds reluctantly.
“I can be much more than that,” I promise her. “You still free tonight?”
“Maybe.”
“Can I come over? Talk this through some more?”
“I haven’t agreed to it yet.”
“I know. Can I come? Around seven?”
“Fine. But no more flowers.”
“No more flowers,” I promise. “I’ll see you then. Wear something nice.”
“What? Why?”
The suspicion in her voice makes me smile. “Because I’m taking you out on a date.”
SIX
MEGAN
Wear something nice. What does that evenmean?
“Frankie!” I throw another five dresses on my bed, hoping one of them will magically catch my eye. Because it should. Because I am a clothes person. I love clothes. I love outfits and pieces and fashion and trends, and I like buying them, and I like making them, so you’d think finding something for a simple date night shouldn’t be a problem. You’d think that. But you would be wrong. “Frankie!”
“I’m right here,” she says, sauntering in. “You don’t have to yell.” My roommate is a tall, pink-haired bombshell with the most perfectly toned arms you’ve ever seen. As well as being quietly incredibly intelligent, she’s also a high jumper, a cook, and a part-time DJ. I told her exactly what happened with Christian the other night because I tell her everything, but she wasn’t helpful, seeming to view the whole thing as an experiment and not telling me what I resolutely should or should not do, which is what I actually wanted.
“He told me to wear something nice,” I say, as she eyes the mess that is my room. “I don’t have anything nice.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, Idon’t,” I moan, throwing another dress on the bed. “Help me.”
“I’m going to need more information,” she says. “Nice because you’re meeting his grandmother, or nice because he’s going to sex you up?”
“He’s not going to sex me up.” At least I don’t think he is. “Surely there is a nice in-the-middle of those two options?”
