She answers on the first ring, and her warm, confident voice is always good to hear. “Hello, sweetheart. What are you up to?”
“Oh, you know. Just causing trouble.”
She laughs. “As if. You were never my troublemaker.”
“Nor was Jay. Admit it. You raised two good kids despite your best efforts.” “True, I did try to corrupt you. But you were so stubborn, insisting on actually listening to me and whatnot.” She heaves an exaggerated sigh, and I laugh, enjoying that I don’t need to brace myself to make my out-of-left-field request. She’s the model of a supportive mom, even when I ask for the unusual.
“Speaking of corruption, I need to borrow your apartment tomorrow. Please tell me you and Dad still have your Thursday-night Scrabble contest at the Bridgertons’?”
“You act like we’re so predictable.”
“And the verdict is?”
She huffs indignantly. “Fine, we’re set in our ways. But why do you need our place?” I hear her snapping her fingers. “Oh! Is it for your blog? I read your newest post this morning. All I can say is ooh la la.”
I cringe, the fire flaming my cheeks. I’d nearly forgotten my mother was a devotee of The Lingerie Devotee. While my love of undies isn’t a secret, my blog veered in a much more personal direction last night—one that’s not exactly fodder for the family.
Yet I need to own it. This project involves putting myself out there, so I square my shoulders. “Yes, I’m conducting a research experiment,” I say, then I dive into the rest of the details—how I’m helping Amy, and that the unnamed man is my best guy friend.
There’s a pause, the silence unnerving, till my mom fills it, her pitch rising. “The guy in the blog, the handsome guy—that’s Tristan?”
She says his name like she’s never heard of him, even though she knows him well. She’s met him many times.
“Yes, Tristan.”
“He said yes to being your partner in crime?”
“Well, obviously. You read my post.”
“Interesting.” She says it the way a detective on a TV show would comment on a twist in a case. As if the word can be rolled out on a red carpet.
“Why is it interesting?”
“It’s interesting that he’s the one you enlisted.”
Her logic is a bit circular, so I press further. “Who else was I supposed to ask? He’s a friend. A good, trustworthy friend.”
“True. Then be sure to have fun tomorrow with . . . your friend,” she says, a wink in her voice.
A wink that winds me up. “What’s that supposed to mean, Mom?”
She chuckles like I’m oh so silly. “Sweetheart. I’ve seen how you and Tristan are together. You’re great friends, but you also have this . . . what’s the word . . .?”
“Yes, what is the word?” I’m desperate to know.
She takes another beat, then answers crisply, “Call it a vibe.”
A familiar doorbell rings in her home. “I have to take off. There’s a package I need to pick up downstairs. You know the code to get in. And feel free to have dinner when you’re done.” The sound of the fridge opening reaches my ears. “Let’s see. Looks like we have plenty of dishes ready for you. Edamame and roasted mushrooms, veggie lasagna, and some polenta with red peppers. Just don’t eat the quinoa. I need it for a cranberry salad I’m making for Friday night.”
“I’ll do my best to resist the quinoa,” I say, making a barfing sound. “I mean, it’ll be tough, Mom. But I’ll try.”
“Quinoa is irresistible, so do try to show some self-control,” she says, not taking the bait. “Hands on the man, hands off the quinoa. Gotta go.”
She hangs up.
That’s how the call ends? With advice to keep my paws off her quinoa?
Staring at the screen, I shake my head, trying to shake off her comments, but one word in particular echoes.
And it’s not quinoa.
It’s vibe.
What sort of vibe do Tristan and I have? I wasn’t even aware we had one.
I tap out a note to Amy.
Peyton: Do I have a vibe with Tristan?
My finger hovers over the send button. But I don’t hit it. Instead, I delete the text, letter by letter.
I don’t know that I’m ready to hear someone else’s opinion when I haven’t formed my own yet, so I ask myself that question the rest of the afternoon as I take care of customers, into Thursday, and then later that night as I select my underthings.
Do we give off a sense of something? An energy?
I reflect back on the way it felt to tear off his clothes, to discover his strength, to find that flash of heat in his eyes.
Goosebumps rise on my arms, and my breath catches, giving me my answer.
As I slide into a lace plunge teddy, I think my mother might be right.
If there’s a vibe, I’m betting it’s the boomerang effect of that kiss from ten years ago.
Because Tuesday night, I wanted that again.
And I wanted to tear his shirt off for more than knowledge.
For more than the blog.
I didn’t simply want to undress him for research. I wanted to undress him for me.
As I find a black dress in my closet, I pause, running my hand over the soft fabric, contemplating, wondering.
What am I supposed to do with this desire?
How am I supposed to manage this new bout of wanting?
I don’t know what to make of these feelings. Except this much I know for a fact—it would be a mistake to act on them.
Long ago, we had our chance. Now, we have our friendship, and it’s back on solid ground again.
He means too much to me. He matters too much. I won’t let anything topple us.
Not even the shiver of desire that shoots down my spine as I head to my parents’ Fifth Avenue apartment.
After all, he can’t practice whisking off my little black dress while we walk up the staircase at my place.
I don’t have a staircase.
My parents do, though, and it’s carpeted.
That’s great because I suspect I’m going to fall on my ass.
15
Peyton
The first time we try the scene, my shoe catches the carpet, and I nearly twist my ankle.
The second time, Tristan laughs so hard while trying to tug up my skirt from three steps away that we both fall into a fit of laughter.
The third time most definitely isn’t a charm. It’s a tumble as he lunges for me and I shriek while we slide down the steps.
On our asses.
But I don’t mind falling with him. It doesn’t feel like a failure. It feels like a spectacular fail with my best friend. On the bottom step, I collect myself and hold out my hands, flummoxed. “How the hell do they pull it off in the books?”
“Don’t you know? In romance novels, everyone is suave and coordinated.”
“Are you saying I’m not coordinated?” I ask indignantly as I untangle my legs from his feet.
“You? No. Never.”
I give him the gentle shove on his shoulder that he deserves. “You’re not exactly Fred Astaire.”
He grins from his post next to me on the bottom step. “Fine. Let’s call a spade a spade. I’m not Fred and you’re not Ginger.” He smacks his forehead. “Ginger! You are a ginger.”