“Last time you sampled my shrub you nearly spit it out on the waitress as she passed by.”
“You know my luck with waitresses.”
“And hostesses and classmates and most females. Yes, I do.”
But beneath all the casual banter, I know I have to say no to him. The fact that we’re both done working together and he still wants to hang out is nothing but bad news. I mean, what can we possibly offer each other anymore?
“Are you also saying yes to the pub?”
I can see Ana nodding anxiously at me.
“No,” I tell him and she groans loudly in disappointment. “I’m busy.”
“Washing your hair?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “And not hanging out with you.”
“You’re kind of mean, you know that?”
“You’ve told me.”
“Did I tell you I like that?”
“You have.”
“And yet you keep doing it.”
I sigh even though I’m trying not to smile. “Anyway, I don’t think it’s a good idea. There’s no reason for us to hang out anymore.”
A pause comes between us. Am I being too harsh? Maybe.
I open my mouth to backtrack but he says, “But I have a reason.”
“And what is that?”
“A proposition.”
“Yeah, those never end well.”
“This might. It might end with us being rich.”
Now he has my attention. “What are you talking about?”
“Let me pick you up, I can be there in a half hour.”
“But what is this about? I’m not going unless I know. My roommate had a bad dust-up with a Nigerian drug lord last month and I’m not about to follow in her footsteps.”
“Tell him the chicken parmigiana was good,” she whispers, gesturing to the phone.
“I hate to burst your bubble, peach, but you know I’m not a Nigerian drug lord. But I do have a solution for that overactive imagination of yours.”
“If I come will you promise to never call me peach again?”
“No,” he says, “but that’s only because I’m nothing but honest.”
“I’m still not sure that’s true.”
“Trust me.”
“Not helping.”
“See you in thirty minutes.”
And he quickly hangs up before I can protest again.
“Is he coming here?” Ana asks excitedly. I’m not surprised to see her wine has been wolfed down.
“No, we’re going to Spinnakers again,” I tell her, quickly marching into my bedroom to find myself something suitable to wear. I know my Lululemon pants and “Bazinga!” tank top should suffice but I’m strangely compelled to make myself look better.
Ana follows me. “A date?” she asks with cautious optimism.
“No,” I tell her, adding a glare. “Not a date. I don’t date guys like Blake and he doesn’t date girls like me. We’ve been over this.”
“Not even if he’s your fuckboy?”
I pause rifling through my closet and give her a look. “Where did you learn the term fuckboy?”
“Your friend, Rio,” she says. “She talks a lot. I learned a lot.”
I turn away from her and whip off the tank, sliding on a mustard-colored flutter sleeve blouse that I know looks banging with my hair. Speaking of hair, I pull my elastic out and attempt to fluff it around my shoulders.
“It’s so pretty, wear it like that,” she says, coming up behind me and petting my head like I’m an exotic bird.
“On second thought, no,” I tell her. He knows what he said to me about my hair, he would know it was for him. I pull it back into a loose topknot, slip on white capris and rose gold slides and I’m almost ready to go.
Oh, this part is going to be awkward.
I slowly turn around to see Ana staring at me, hopeful as all hell.
“I could just give you a light makeup. A dusting.”
I manage a smile and nod. “Okay,” I tell her, hoping I don’t sound as scared as I feel. I mean, she’s come a long way. Just because she was totally pumped to make me look like Groot a few minutes ago doesn’t mean I’m going to walk out of here looking like I belong in a Marvel film.
I sit down at the kitchen table and she spends a good three minutes just staring at her makeup and then my face. Back and forth. I’ve never seen her look so determined before—I don’t think the “natural look” is even in her vocabulary.
Then she gets to work. I drink the wine.
She’s still finishing my face with blush when there’s a knock at the door and I’m having severe déjà vu from last time Blake came over. But luckily she kept her Krazy Glued eyelashes at bay and when she hands me the mirror, lo and behold I actually look pretty foxy. The peach eyeshadow and winged eyeliner really make my blue eyes pop and the blush blends naturally with my lightly freckled skin.
“Do you like it?” she asks, hands clasped by her chest and cringing already at my potential reply.
“I love it,” I tell her. And it’s not a lie.
I give her a quick, albeit awkward, hug—maybe the first hug I’ve ever given her—and I quickly grab my purse and head out the door.
Blake is waiting in the garden that takes up the whole backyard of the house, one that the landlords have been toiling over ever since the first shoots started sprouting in March. Though they say we have free use of the yard and the quaint iron table and chair set situated among the lilacs, Ana and I are often intruding on their gardening whenever we use it. Ah, the joys of not having your own place.