I shrug. “Moderate.”
“All right, I’ll look at a few things and email you some options I think will give the most return on your money,” he updates, but then he pauses, meets my eyes for a long moment, and laughs. “And to think, you went through all that college to become an engineer, and here you are…asking me about fucking stocks.”
“I still do engineer shit.”
“When exactly?”
“Whenever I go to my office.”
He laughs. “So, almost never.”
I just shrug and take a bite of my burger. He can think what he wants about my work life. I don’t really give a shit.
Truth be told, for the past six years, my passive income from real estate and investments has made it so I don’t have to work full time as an engineer, but I spent so much time building the company that it aggravates me too much when I think about walking away from it all. As long as I’m able, I’ll keep doing both.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to find three new messages from Daisy. The first two are pictures of a lamp and a couch, followed by What about these? Should I bring them?
We’ve been playing this game for the past forty-eight hours, and I know it at least started as a way for her to breach the text message barrier formed by where we left off—with me telling her to use her fingers like my cock to stroke herself.
Her sending me pictures of random things in her apartment and me telling her she doesn’t need to bring them is a way to keep the lines of communication and evidentiary support for USCIS open and flowing without having to address the dripping wet pussy in the room.
Me: No.
Daisy: Are you sure? Because I could easily hire movers to transport from LA to New York…
A weird combination of a sigh and laugh escapes my lips.
“Who is that?” Rem asks, and I look up to find him staring at me curiously, but I just shake my head and type out a response.
Me: My apartment has furniture, babe.
“Dude. Seriously. Who are you texting?” he questions. “I sure as shit know your fucking accountant wouldn’t make you smile like that.”
“When he’s messaging me with high-profit numbers? He sure as fuck does.”
“Whatever,” Rem retorts. “This is a different kind of smile, and you know it. Who’s the girl?”
“My wife,” I answer simply with a flicker of eye contact.
“Oh yeah. Sure, Flynn. You’re just sitting here, texting your fucking wife,” he says, rolls his eyes, and laughs as if I just said the most absurd thing on the planet. And then, he just goes back to eating his burger as if I didn’t just tell him I have a wife.
Sure, it’s probably because he thinks I was joking, but this is me we’re talking about, not fucking Ty or Jude.
I don’t bullshit. Ever.
My phone vibrates again, and I check the screen to find another message from Daisy.
Daisy: Besides clothes and shoes, I feel like I’m hardly bringing anything, Flynn. What about dishes? Do you have enough dishes? Or glasses? How about silverware? No one ever has enough silverware.
I know her well enough by now to understand that she’s going to send me about six or seven additional rambling text messages before she’s finished.
So, I give her time to ask all the questions her little heart desires and go back to eating lunch with my brother. You know, the first person I’ve actually told that I’m married, and he doesn’t believe me.
Pretty sure he’s going to believe you soon enough when Daisy is living in your apartment…
The silence is marred only by our chewing as my phone buzzes frantically from its spot on the table, and Remy’s eyes narrow slightly as he watches it. When it nearly falls to the floor from shaking itself so much, I pick it back up and scroll through what she’s sent me.
Daisy: Okay, so I’m guessing by your lack of enthusiastic agreement, that’s a no to cutlery.
Daisy: How about bath towels? I have these really great towels I got from Pottery Barn, and I swear they’re the softest towels you’ll ever feel against your skin. I know guys act like they don’t care about shit like that, but let’s be real, no one wants to dry off with sandpaper.
Daisy: Fine. No bath towels. And I guess if you have really crappy ones, I’ll buy new and leave them at your place after I leave. Your skin will thank me.
Daisy: Should I bring my own pillows? Comforter? Sheets?
Daisy: Gah. I’m an idiot, and we need to delete all these messages because they are insanely suspect and do the opposite of saying we’re in love. They scream “This chick is frauding the system and needs to be deported ASAP.”
Daisy: Oh my God. Delete that one too.
Daisy: P.S. Has anyone ever told you that texting with you is impossible? I never know what you’ve read and haven’t read because you’re not answering me.
Daisy: Delete that one too.
I’m smiling when I finish reading, and without thinking, I type out the first message that comes to mind.
Me: Love you, Daisy.
The words come so naturally that I don’t even catch myself until I put the phone down on the table again and look back up and into the weight of my brother’s stare.
I think we’re both wondering the same thing. What, exactly, is really going on here?
Monday, April 22nd, New York
Daisy
If you’re looking for peace and relaxation, do not go to JFK Airport. Do not marry a man to save your residency in the United States, do not move across the country, and do not do it within a week’s time.
I juggle my carry-on and big backpack through the narrow hallway that leads to baggage claim, hoping to find some peace away from the bustle of passengers running for their flights and lining up way too early, but it’s nothing like I hoped.
It is a madhouse. Every baggage claim is surrounded by impatient passengers who have just arrived, and the people who have managed to get their bags are careening through the crowd with their luggage like it’s the Indy 500.
Honestly, I’m surprised to see that it’s this busy on a Monday evening, but I’m a naïve Canadian who’s been living her life at an energy-depleting level for the last week, and New York eats its young for breakfast. I really hope I survive.
Swallowing thickly, I set my backpack down on the floor and take a minute to blow some of the wild curls of my hair out of my face. There’s a river of sweat running down my back from anxiety, and I need to calm the eff down if I have any hope of getting all my shit off the baggage belt and out to a cab.
Okay, Daisy. You can do this. You’re an independent woman, for Pete’s sake. You’ve been on your own most of your life, and this isn’t any different now.
Gathering myself, I check the board for my carousel number, and with my bags slung over my shoulders again, I head for the crowd standing around it. I have to dodge a group of rowdy twentysomething men with golf bags and nearly get run over by a woman with a screaming toddler sitting on her carry-on suitcase, but I make it to the shiny silver oval just as the red-siren-light thingie on the top starts to buzz.
Preparing, I drop my bags to the tile at my feet, tie my curls back in a loose ponytail, and adjust my favorite cutoff jean shorts. A couple of jigs and hops on my toes, and I’d be a boxer in the corner of the ring readying for her fight.