tissue paper and putting it back inside with an “Ooh” and an “Aah.” There. All pretty again.
Abbott sighs. “Don’t just moan into the phone like a creep, dammit—tell me what it is!”
I’m taken aback. “I sounded like a creep? Dang, I thought I was being sexy.” For real though.
“Not even a little.” There’s a tapping noise, as if Abbott is smacking a pencil against the surface of her desk. “If that’s your idea of sexy, it’s no wonder you’re single.”
Now is not a good time to mention the Bastard Bachelor Society, and if she’s hoping to sink her female talons into a guy, she has a better chance with someone else. This gentleman is unavailable for courtship.
“I must be losing my touch.”
“You had a touch? Huh. Weird.”
“Is it necessary to be such a smartass?”
“I don’t know, is it?”
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Answering a question with a question.”
“I only did that once.”
Once was enough. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?” There, I changed the subject, knowing she loves to eat and loves to talk about food.
“Leftovers, probably.”
“What kind of leftovers?”
“I don’t know, maybe the chicken I had at dinner the other night. I might fry that up with some eggs and whatever vegetables I can find.”
“That sounds disgusting.”
“No it doesn’t! It’s literally all chicken by-product and vegetables, you moron.”
“It’s not fresh. Nan got me gift cards for SmithStone’s and another one for Flocke and Brow, so I’d rather eat that.”
Abbott emits a low, impressed whistle. “Oh, so you’re a snob now?”
Do I sound like a snob because I don’t want her leftovers? Probably, but blame it on a lifetime of being hungry and not having enough to eat. In a way, I feel entitled to be a picky eater now that I can afford groceries.
“No, I’m not a snob—just not in the mood for leftovers, that’s all.”
“Oh, now that you have those gift cards burning a hole in your polyester pockets, you’re hot shit, eh?”
I glance down at my lap, at the gray slacks I had professionally altered and that cost more than I used to make in a week working at the coffee shop near campus when I was still a student. “These are a wool blend.”
“Brooks, I’m only teasing. If you want to have dinner with me, just say so.” I can practically hear her twirling her hair.
“I don’t want to have dinner with you.” Can’t. “But since we both have to eat, we could do it in the same room.”
“Wow. How romantic.”
“I’m not asking you on a date.” How can I make this any clearer? “I just don’t want your slim offerings.”
“I wasn’t offering to feed you! Not once! You asked what I had planned for dinner and I told you I was having leftovers. Stop twisting everything I say to suit your goals. And if you want me to come over for dinner, just say so.”
“I don’t want you to come over for dinner.”
“Okay then. I won’t.”
I hesitate, feeling like a world-class dipshit. I mean, she’s amazing and I love spending time with her—is it necessary for me to completely shut her out? After all, can’t we all use a few good friends?
Plus, her apartment is better than mine; her fridge is completely stocked, thanks to our nan; she has fresh flowers so it smells really good; and her view is insane.
Barring that horrible fucking cat, her place wins top prize in every category.
“Should we order food and eat it at your place? I have these gift cards—go online and pick something out.”
“Are you telling me what to do? You’re so bossy.”
“Do you want mystery chicken combo, or do you want Flocke and Brow?”
“Do you honestly think that place is going to deliver?” Abbott snorts again—so unladylike. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Please. I intend to drop Nan’s name all over town like a bad habit—dinner will be on your doorstep at six.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather use the gift card to go to the actual restaurant instead of eating at home? Where’s the fun in that?”
She has a good point, but I’m about to make a better one. “Because I’m all peopled out and you make me laugh.”
I can see her defenses melting like warm butter on a hot summer day. I hear her smile. “Make it seven and you have yourself a date.”
“You have yourself a deal, not a date.”
“Sure, surrre, whatever you say, lover boy.”
Fuck. “No flirting tonight. We’re just friends, remember?” She’s the one who said it, not me, and it’s best that