lasted this long. And this is bullshit, us not being together. Come to Honolulu, Sash. Get on the next plane, like you said you were gonna do that one time. We’ll figure it out. I got some money from my dad. I got a place here. I mean, Pete is sleeping on the sofa, but you’re cool with that, right? He says hi, by the way. You’re gonna love this Afghan resin his buddy got him from the Navy. The other day, we spent all afternoon just sitting on the beach, smoking that stuff and looking for dick-shaped clouds. [A full minute of giggling.] I wish you could have been there, Sash. Some funny shit. Anyhow, call me, okay? No more Project Icon. Call me back. Love ya, babe.”
Why couldn’t I listen to this without cringing? Maybe it was because he was so high, he probably wouldn’t even remember having left the message by the time he woke up. And if all this was irritating me so much now, was it really such a great idea to go live with him on a distant tropical island? I didn’t know the answer to that question any more. I wasn’t sure of anything.
It was getting late. Although Project Icon went out at five o’clock, local time (which meant eight on the East Coast) there’d been so many logistical issues this week—missing caterers, broken mixing desk, outbreak of the flu—I hadn’t been able to start work on Michael Bolton Week until seven. And now, thanks to Mia’s outburst, it was almost eight thirty. I was hungry and tired. And, I had to admit, a little depressed.
Sighing, I snapped my laptop shut. There was no way I could concentrate on work right now. I needed to go home. Have a glass of wine. Sleep.
I drained my coffee and threw the cup at the trash, missing by about twelve feet. Pathetic. I was about to try again when my phone broke into the chorus of “Whatta Man.”
I stared at the vibrating plastic for a moment, baffled.
What the…?
Then I looked at the screen, and burst out laughing. “BORIS” said the caller ID. He must have put his name into my contacts book—and programmed that ringtone—while he was showing me his friend’s translation app at Soba Kitchen.
“You’re unbelievable,” I said, accepting the call.
“I had a feeling you might be a Salt-N-Pepa girl,” he replied. “I mean, I know you say you’re into all that ‘smart-people’ music—like that growly voiced dude Tim Watts or whatever—but I’m not buying it. I think you have some hidden shallows, Sasha King.”
It was hard to believe I hadn’t seen him since the night of Maison Chelsea, which was—what?—a month ago now. He’d tried to rearrange our date several times, of course, but things had just been too crazy. Besides, I had a boyfriend.
“So hey,” Boris went on. “I got your message on eCupidMatch.”
I was confused: I hadn’t sent him a message. Then a terrible image came to mind: Mrs. Zglagovvcini. Or rather, Mrs. Zglagovvcini—halfblind even with her reading glasses on—bent over the yellowing keys of her ancient, wheezing PC. Oh, no.
“You didn’t need to be so hard on yourself,” said Boris, as I crouched down and bit into my fist.
“What do you mean?” I groaned, eyes closed. Oh, what did you say, Mrs. Zglagovvcini?
“Look, I admire that level of… honesty,” Boris continued. “But you’ve gotta give yourself a break.”
“Thank you, Boris,” I said, deciding not to probe any further. I just didn’t want to know.
“No—thank you,” he said.
“… for what?”
“For what you said about me. I mean, heh-heh—it’s not every day a girl calls you—”
“Please don’t mention it.”
“I mean—”
“Seriously, Boris. Whatever it was. Don’t mention it.”
Boris coughed, awkwardly.
“So, anyway,” I said, ending the brief silence on the line. “I tried out your friend’s new phone app the other day. I had no idea the Russian dry cleaner around the corner from me was offering happy-ending massages in its alterations department.”
“Guess most cops don’t speak Russian.”
“Guess.”
“By the way,” said Boris. “I meant to say I’m sorry about what happened with your boyfriend.”
I wanted to throw the phone on the floor and jump on it.
“I mean, what a douche,” he went on. “He gets a cushy bar job at some tiny hotel in Hawaii and you’re the one who has to save up all the money, working day and night, only ever coming home to eat takeout food alone in front of the TV, even though what you really want is just to find