“That’s not true—no one ever gives me anything, so I doubt I’d be a dick about it.”
“Well, someone did—probably my nan. So…what is it?”
“I think she’s my nan, too.” I crack the lid on the box and peer inside.
“Did you just call her your nan?”
“Yup.” I pop the P for effect, knowing it’s going to irritate the piss out of her.
I hear her lips purse. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ve been called way worse.”
“Oh my God, Brooks, would you tell me what she sent you? I have actual work to do!”
Jesus, why’s she getting all pissy? “Patience! Patience…”
“I’m literally going to choke you.”
“I’ll choke you if you want me to. All you have to do is ask.” I smirk and palm the gift card in my right hand, thumb pressing into the outer corner.
“Shut up.”
“Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
A soft chuckle reverberates on the other end of the line. “I might have.”
She totally did.
Adorable.
I haven’t known Abbott long, but I’m already well aware of her many tells:
When she’s frustrated, she tells me to shut up.
When she thinks I’m amusing but doesn’t want to admit it, she rolls her eyes.
When she’s trying not to laugh at me, she snorts.
When she’s trying not to touch me, she puts something in her mouth…
Speaking of putting something in her mouth…
I squirm at my desk, lifting my ass so I can readjust the crotch of my slacks, then settle back into the conversation. I already know Nan likes me—as evidenced by the polished black box sitting in the center of my desk.
It’s her granddaughter I’m not sure about.
Women don’t usually treat me like this, even women I have no interest in. Typically they’re more…shit, what’s the word I’m looking for? Needy? Clingy. Fake. Coy. They play hard to get, but I’d bet money that’s not what Abbott Margolis is doing. No—this girl is all class, and for whatever reason, she’s not romantically into me.
I can’t recall a time I haven’t been able to make a girl wet for me, and I wonder how long it would take with my neighbor.
Stop, Brooks—fucking around with the girl who lives directly across the hall is the dumbest thing to enter your mind.
Fine, so maybe it’s not the dumbest idea I’ve ever had—there have been plenty of others. Like the time when I was sixteen and found a wad of cash in my mother’s rusted coffee can. A few boys and I took ourselves down to the seedy strip club in town, an old, converted warehouse where they’d let anyone through as long as they had money in their pockets. It smelled like stale beer, cigarettes, and disappointment.
I took that wad of cash and got a flash of my first pair of tits that day—then got grounded and received a beating for my efforts, too.
My parents had needed that money, and I’d spent it on strippers.
But come on, I was sixteen—where else was I going to get the opportunity to see boobs? I was a late bloomer, not coming into my own until college. Skinny, lanky, and awkward with plenty of acne, the unhealthy cafeteria food at university bulked me up in no time. The freshman fifteen done my body good.
“Brooks? Are you there?” There’s a pause. “Hello?”
“Huh?”
“Honestly, Brooks, you called me—not the other way around.”
“Shit. Sorry, I just remembered something.”
“Mm-hmm.” She hums into the receiver, the sound amplified by the old-school telephone system.
“Right. The package—sorry.” I spin in my swivel chair, replacing the gold 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?