Page 66 of Things We Fake
Despite my best efforts to switch it off, my awareness of her sharpened like a spotlight.
I shifted slightly, resisting the ridiculous urge to close the last few inches between us. “Did your friends see the paper?”
“Oh yeah.” She blew out a long breath. “I told them the truth. They swore they wouldn’t tell anyone.”
I shrugged. “If you trust them, I trust them. They seem fun.”
“Fun and completely insane, but yeah, they’re amazing.” She giggled. “Jesse filled us in on your meeting four years ago. I would love to know what happened after she left.”
“Oh, that.” I scratched the back of my neck, the ghost of a grin tugging at my lips along with the memory. “It wasn’t pretty. After Jesse stormed out, Sebastian’s girlfriend showed up. Lola something. She’d seen Jesse, and she was furious. Seeing me just confused her further.”
“I can imagine.”
“She demanded to know where Sebastian was. I pointed down the hall, then ducked into the bathroom. Thirty seconds later, all hell broke loose. That woman had some pair of lungs on her.”
She chuckled. “I’ll bet.”
“Apparently, Lola thought Jesse was the main course, and she was being served leftovers. She transferred a good chunk of whipped cream from Sebastian’s crotch to his face, chucked the keys out the window, and stormed out.”
Sue was doubled over with laughter. “Oh my God! What happened next?”
“You mean after I took a picture?”
She gasped. “You didn’t.”
“Sure I did. It’s what guys do. Then I went to find the keys, set him free, he cleaned up, and neither Lola nor canned whipped cream has ever been allowed back in this apartment.”
She shook her head. “Who thinksCock à la modeis a good idea while handcuffed?”
“With Sebastian, nothing surprises me. One minute he’s all business, next he’s plotting death-defying stunts—or whipped cream sexcapades.”
“He needs the love of a good woman.”
“At least once a week. He got badly burned when he was young, so monogamy isn’t his thing now. I do think he’s got a soft spot for your friend Jesse.”
“We’ll never know. She can’t stand him.” She pointed to the food. “Shall we?”
I looked around. I’d almost forgotten I had a surprise for her, and this wasn’t the setting I needed.
“Actually, do you mind if we eat at your place?” I said. “It’s cleaner.”
“Sure. I’ll go set the table.”
“Give me ten minutes, I’ll be right over.”
After she left, I went to the bathroom, splashed cold water over my face and brushed my teeth. Shit, I looked tired. But I didn’t feel tired. Excitement pumped through my veins as I went to the bedroom and dug up the treasures I’d prepared for her.
When Sue told me she loved sunflowers, I had made it my life’s mission to bring her some. Finding sunflowers in April in Manhattan on a Sunday night turned out to be a challenge, but not impossible. A boutique florist in Brooklyn had a dozen left, hidden in the back cooler. I convinced the woman to part with them—and to throw in a decent vase—by overpaying and sweet-talking her delivery guy into hopping on the subway.
I also bought chocolates. I told myself it was to cover my bases, but the truth was that I wanted to please her. A spark of happiness in her eyes was a whole damn rainbow in my heart. I wanted her to know that I cared, I listened, I paid attention.
By the time I stood in front of Sue’s door, flower vase in one hand, ribbon-tied box in the other, my heart was doing something embarrassing in my chest. I hadn’t done any grand gestures in a long time, and today I’d already done several. What if she thought I was an idiot?
She opened the door and froze. Her eyes went wide, and then softened, liquefied like flower petals in mist.
“Oh my God,” she squealed, taking the flowers. “Where did you find sunflowers in April? And on a Sunday night!”
She cradled the vase to her chest and I knew I’d done the right thing.
