“Ice skating!” Mia looked surprised. “You skate?”
“No, I’m horrible, as he will see. But that was our deal. He gets to take me skating—after which I’ve been promised there will be hot chocolate—and then I get to take him somewhere of my choice. I might torture him with some classical music.”
“Those are called dates, Erin. You’re dating each other.” Coco wore an amused expression.
“We’re not dating,” I said irritably.
“You know,” mused Mia. The votive candles on our table gleamed in her eyes. Or maybe that was mischief. “I’m beginning to think Coco might be right. If you’re serious about not having sex with him, better set that alarm tonight.”
#
After I got home that night, I took off my jeans, blouse, and heels, and purposely put on my ugliest sweats and granniest of panties. A hugely oversized, faded black sweatshirt so old it had pilled, with holes under both arms. It used to belong to my Dad and said Lakeshore Lanes on it, which I think was a bowling alley at some point in the last century. In a contest of frayed hems, my green flannel pants gave the sweatshirt a run for its money. The pants were so long I had to roll the stretched-out elastic waist band over twice, and the ends still flopped over my feet.
I took off my makeup, gathered my hair on the top of my head in a scraggly nest, and slathered my face with avocado masque. “There,” I said to my reflection. “You are about as unattractive as you can get. Now, if he shows up—which he won’t—it will look as though you were not expecting him—because you aren’t.” I frowned at a glob of avocado that had plopped off my face and into the sink. “And even if you are and he does, one look at you will neutralize his desire. You’re safe. Now let’s go downstairs for some ice cream and crystal meth.”
A few minutes later I was settled in front of the television with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s Cake Batter ice cream and the remote. The doors were locked, the alarm was set, and the shades were drawn. I’d just started the episode of Breaking Bad when I heard a knock at the back door.
I froze.
No way.
I paused Netflix and went to the front window, pushing aside the shades to peer out.
Charlie’s silver Honda was at the curb. At first, I felt a little jolt of elation, my heart echoing his sharp rapping on the glass. He came!
But then I remembered what we’d decided.
Stop it. You have a plan in place, so just stay cool. Calm. Clothed.
Steeling myself with a few deep breaths, I headed for the kitchen.
I deactivated the alarm and opened the door only partway, as if seeing only half of him might lessen the desire budding inside me. “What?”
“Wow, look at you.” Over his shoulder he yelled, “Run, Toto! Run!”
“Very funny.” I gave him my best Margaret Hamilton face. “What are you doing here, Charlie? I thought we were just going to be friends.”
“I came to hang out, that’s what friends do. And I brought whiskey.” He held up a brown paper bag.
Oh crap, he brought whiskey. Try harder. Be meaner. “Don’t you have any other girl friends?”
“Sure. One of them lives just a couple streets over.”
Jealousy stabbed me in the gut. You asshole. I was kidding. “Well, go take your whiskey over to her house.”
“I did. You think you’re my first stop tonight?”
I started to close the door but his hand shot out and blocked it.
“Come on, Erin, I’m just teasing you. Let me in.”
“No. I don’t trust you.” And I really don’t trust myself.
“I promise to keep my hands off you.” He cleared his throat, looking me up and down. “Really, it might not be that hard.”
I glared at him but stepped back, allowing him to come in. Pushing the door shut, I leaned back against it and pointed at him. “I want it on record that letting you in tonight is against my better judgment.”
He nodded. “Noted.”
“And that I don’t think you’ll keep your word.”
“Now whose ego is staggering?”
Glad the avocado masque was hiding my blush, I glided past him, chin up. “Take off those wet boots and leave them by the door. On the rug. I don’t want wet footprints on the floor.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I ignored that. “Grab glasses from the cupboard next to the fridge. And get a spoon from the drawer in the island if you want some ice cream.”
He left his boots by the door and opened the cupboard. I couldn’t resist going over to the rug and straightening—his giant, heavy boots had pulled it askew. “Oh my God.”
“What?” I straightened and saw him pulling open all my kitchen cupboards, the contents of which were neatly stacked and lined up.
“There’s not one thing out of place. Even your spices are all organized in perfect little rows. And oh my God—are they alphabetized? They are!” He burst out laughing.
I shoved him aside and closed all the cupboard doors, leaving open only the one holding the glasses. “I like things neat, OK? I like to know where everything is. Your kitchen is probably one big mess.”
“You’d hate it,” he confirmed, taking two tumblers off a shelf. “None of my dishes match, my spice cupboard is all jacked up, and my dishwasher leaves spots.”
I shuddered dramatically, reaching up to close the cupboard door.