Say the Word(82)

With a laugh, I walked to the lockbox and slipped the NDA inside before placing it back on its shelf in my closet. When I returned to the bed, I sat in the space between Fae and Simon, who immediately enveloped me with their arms.

“What would I do without you guys?” I asked, leaning my head on Simon’s shoulder.

“You’d probably be dead in a ditch somewhere.” Fae giggled.

“Or, at the very least, you’d have an abominable fashion sense and never get into the good nightclubs,” Simon added.

I smiled and sipped my wine.





***


By the time Simon and Fae left me for the night, I was thoroughly buzzed and swaddled in the pale blue silk pajama set I never wore because it was too pretty to wrinkle and, anyway, didn’t only women in classic movies wear fabulous designer nightwear? Most nights I slept in the first oversized t-shirt my hands landed on when they reached into my dresser drawer, but tonight I had little choice in the matter — Simon was being insistent.

The pajamas had been a Christmas gift from him last year, purchased because they’d apparently “bring out the blue in my eyes” and, as an added bonus, help to trick men into thinking I was the kind of classy lady who wore silk to bed. While rummaging through my wardrobe — as was his habit, whenever he was cooped up in my tiny studio for too long — Simon had been dismayed to find them folded in a neat pile with the tags still attached, in a small nook at the back of my closet. He’d retrieved them, made a fuss about my neglect of a perfectly good pajama set, and, of course, forced me to put them on immediately.

I had to admit that his taste was impeccable. As soon as I pulled the sleek tank top over my head and slid my legs into the flowing kimono pants, I fell in love with the feeling of silk as it brushed against my skin like a caress. And he’d been right — my gray-blue eyes did look brighter in the mirror in contrast to the fabric.

During the pajama drama, Fae located a bag of microwave popcorn somewhere in the depths of my cabinets — quite possibly leftover by the previous tenant, but I had a good buzz on and I wasn’t feeling picky tonight — and popped a comedy into my DVD player. The two of them clucked over me like mother hens for nearly an hour before I finally forced them out of my apartment. They would’ve stayed with me all night if I’d asked, but I was craving some alone time after the day I’d had.

The credits were rolling and my eyes were drooping when the buzzer rang sharply three times in quick succession. I rose and stretched the kinks out of my back, walking to the door with my wineglass in hand. I figured it might be Simon and Fae, back to ensure that I hadn’t pulled a Sylvia Plath and put my head in the oven or started bottling my own urine like Howard Hughes.

I pressed the intercom and was surprised by the voice I heard on the opposite end.

“Babe! It’s Desmond!”

What was he doing here?

“Um, hey, Des. Did you need something?” I buzzed back, my brow furrowed in confusion.

“I have your jacket! You left it at my place after the movie a few weeks back. I was in the neighborhood so I figured I’d swing by and return it to you.”

I glanced at my watch — it was 9:00 p.m. on a Friday night. Maybe he really had been in the area, but it seemed unlikely. Guys who looked like Des didn’t spend their free evenings playing errand boy for former girlfriends. Then again, I could be totally overthinking things. I’d had too much wine to judge properly.

I sighed and buzzed him in.

“Hey, babe.” Desmond leaned down and kissed my cheek as soon as I pulled open the door. “Nice jammies.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

“You okay?” he asked, his eyes scanning my face. My makeup was long gone and I knew that my eyes were still puffy and red from earlier.

I nodded, but didn’t explain the residual traces of tears.

“Here,” he said handing over my jacket.

“Uh, thanks,” I repeated, feeling awkward. Southern hospitality practically demanded I let him in, rather than leave him standing on the stoop like a stranger, but I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. I was half-inebriated, braless, and feeling vulnerable after the day I’d had, so a visit from an ex was probably not the greatest idea. As I deliberated, I watched a delivery man walk through my hall toward Mrs. Johansson’s apartment next door, the brown bag in his arms wafting the deliciously greasy aroma of lo mien noodles and egg rolls.

My stomach growled loudly.

“Hungry?” Desmond asked, arching one eyebrow in the direction of my stomach.

“No,” I lied, trying to conceal the Pavlovian response I was having to Mrs. Johansson’s takeout. It was a miracle I managed to hold in the long tendrils of drool threatening to leak from my mouth.

“What’d you eat for dinner?”

“Um.” I winced. “Stale microwave popcorn?”

“Babe.” Des shook his head. “My idea of gourmet may be macaroni and cheese, but even I know that popcorn is not a meal.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Desmond kept talking.

“And no, Doritos and wine don’t count either.”

My mouth snapped closed. The delivery guy, now empty handed, smiled at me as he headed for the stairwell at the end of the hall.

“Come on,” Des said, edging inside my doorway. “I’ll make you something.”