“He is nice. But so is Mom. And you’re pretty nice. Most of the time.”
“Thanks a lot. But you still can’t have it.”
Even though Devon doesn’t live at home anymore, you’d never know it. When not at work, he’s always either here or out with his friends. I’m not sure why he even pays for an apartment. Except as a place to take girls.
Which makes me think of Enzo. Again.
“There’s obviously nothing catching your eye. Let me try.”
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be tonight?”
Thursday is the beginning of the weekend for Devon. Not for me. I have to get through one more day of chasing after eight-year-olds before I get to unwind. This is my typical bolstering routine for Thursday nights: TV and Chinese food. Which my brother is currently eating. He doesn’t get to take over my TV selection too.
“Hey!” I say when he makes another grab for the remote. Hurrying, I click on the first episode of a reliable mood booster. “There, see. Found something.”
“You’re kidding me. A fourth time. Seriously?”
I watch the bus hurtling down a country road, ignoring my brother.
Dr. Zoe Hart. That’s my girl.
“Do you know how many good shows you’ve neglected by watching Heart of Dixie so much? It’s not normal.”
What’s not normal is the number of times I’ve glanced at my phone since this weekend. Which makes absolutely zero sense because Enzo doesn’t have my cell number. And even if he did, he wouldn’t use it.
I thought for sure something would come of Saturday night—of that promise he made. But he didn’t say a word when Devon and I left early, not that he would have propositioned me in front of my brother, and even though I dragged Lisa out to The Wheelhouse again for breakfast, he didn’t show like I’d hoped he might.
Since then, precisely nothing has happened on the Enzo front. I’m back to an Enzo-less life. Which would be fine if I could get his chocolate-brown eyes out of my head.
“Give that to me. You’re not even watching it. You’ve got that far-off look in your eyes.”
Devon makes a grab for the control and succeeds in taking it from me. If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d attempt to wrest it back. Instead, I lie back on the couch with my phone.
“Ass,” I mutter as he flicks away from poor Zoe.
Texts messages. Still nothing. Social media. Whatever. And then, because I’m a glutton for punishment, I open my email. Unlike some of my colleagues, I do have my school mail integrated with my personal one. And I check it off-hours. I teach little ones, and their needs aren’t always 9 to 4. Just last night a parent emailed me to ask for advice on getting her son tested for reading, something I had suggested at the last parent conference. The poor kid’s been stuck in a no-man’s land. Scores not low enough to be red-flagged, not high enough for me to feel comfortable with his progress. The mom wasn’t ready at the time, and the dad pushed the idea aside. I’m glad she’s changed her mind. It’ll give poor Joey a chance to shine.
Emails like hers are the exact reason I like to keep communication open with parents. But a quick glance at my inbox tells me that no gold awaits me tonight. In fact, my email spam filter seems to be misfiring. Junk. More junk. An email from my principal that can wait until tomorrow morning.
And then . . .
To: Chari Atwood
From: Enzo DeLuca
Subject: How are you?
Hey, Chari. Sorry we didn’t get to talk more this weekend. Devon said your mom is doing
better. Glad to hear it. I hope it’s OK to email you. I didn’t have your cell and wasn’t sure Devon would appreciate me asking for it. Talk soon?
Enzo
My heart slams out of my chest. Or at least it feels that way. I put the phone down by my side, take a deep breath, and read it again. Yep. Same message.
From Enzo.
I hit reply but then stop. It’s from an hour ago, and I don’t want to look too eager. So I close my email and pretend to watch whatever cop show Devon found. He sits there without a care in the world, eating the rest of my chicken and broccoli with no idea one of his oldest friends just sent me an email. I know they still talk a lot, even given Enzo’s crazy schedule. They’ve communicated since Saturday, obviously, since Enzo knows about Mom.
Would he care if Enzo emailed me?
Yes.
He would. And even though I’m a grown-ass woman, I can’t ignore the fact that Enzo was Devon’s friend before my . . . whatever this is.
But plenty of people date their siblings’ friends. Is it really such a crazy idea?
Reminding myself Enzo and I are not dating, that this is just one simple email, and an innocent one at that, I grab my phone. An hour and five minutes. Yep, enough time has passed.
To: Enzo DeLuca
From: Chari Atwood
Subject: Great!
Hi Enzo. Mom is doing better, thanks. So sorry we had to leave early Saturday night. The
restaurant is amazing. Tris got some great press on Sunday, so it looks like DeLuca’s II will be a hit.
“You look pretty intent.”
I glance up. Devon is watching me.
“Just a parent,” I lie, hating it. I can’t think of the last time I lied to my brother. We share just about everything. “You know how much I love cop shows.” Which is true.
He turns back to the TV, but now I feel like crap. Thankfully, the feeling passes pretty quickly when I remember Enzo actually emailed me. I really didn’t think he’d get back in touch.
And I agree, Devon would definitely wonder if you asked for my number. It’s totally fine to email me, but feel free to text if you want. Number is 555-710-8314.
Chari
Probably an understatement, but I suspect Lisa was right, that Enzo didn’t make a move because of my brother. No need to spook him.
“So,” I say, shifting my attention to Devon. “What’s the deal with Doctor Karim?” I try to sound casual, but he knows me too well.
Devon makes a rude sound. “Colleen? Nothing.”
I’m not convinced.
“Didn’t look like nothing the other night.”
No answer.
“I hope it works out. I like her.”
“There’s nothing to work out. We’re not a thing.”
Of course they aren’t. Devon doesn’t do “things,” otherwise known as relationships. “Too bad. She’s smart and nice. She’s sort of a friend, but I say go for it.”
A not-so-subtle attempt to feel him out about the whole Enzo thing. I hold my breath and wait for his reply.
“You guys aren’t exactly close.”
I shrugged. “No, not really, but even if we were, you’d totally have my stamp of approval.”
Another guttural male sound.
“To sleep with her? I highly doubt it.”
I make a face. “No, ass. To date her.”
Devon looks at me like I’ve lost my marbles. “This is why I don’t date your friends.”
“Because you’re incapable of a real relationship? And only do one-night stands?”
I really shouldn’t have asked the question because I already know the answer.
“Yes. Exactly,” Devon confirms.
Which is when I toss a pillow at him. “And that’s why they call them throw pillows.”