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She looks so hopeful I forgive her all over again. I’m getting scary good at this being-the-bigger-person shit. “Yeah, yeah. I love you, sis.”
I’m thinking maybe Bowie’s going to chime in, beg for me to reaffirm our BFF status next, but instead he seems to be surveying the apartment, a furrow digging between his brows.
“Aside from the kitchen, this place looks pretty good.” Eyes narrowed, he turns to me. “Too good. If you’re making Lara pick up after your filthy ass?—”
“Who, me?” she asks, emerging from the back hall with a wide smile, damp hair thrown up in a messy knot and wearing a pair of new athletic shorts and an old T-shirt from our high school that’s threadbare in a few places.
She looks so much like the girl I used to know, I almost strain my neck doing a double take.
Which, thank you, baby Jesus, she doesn’t notice.
Taking the open chair on the other side of the couch, she waves a hand around. “Nah, Boomer’s got someone who cleans and shops.” She turns to Bowie. “Sylvia. Same person you’ve had for the last year, right? Anyway, I haven’t met her yet. She comes while I’m at work.”
Piper stops wiggling her toes into Bowie’s side, and the perma-scowl on his face is replaced by a smooth stunned stare as they take another, slower study of the space they used to occupy with me.
Bowie’s brows lift. “Sylvia. Riiight.”
Piper’s staring at me, wide-eyed, mouth gaping.
Christ.
“And Sylvia does the shopping for you guys too?” Bowie asks, leaning forward where he sits. “Same as she did when we lived here?”
I nod, firing fucking lasers through my eyes.
And because they’re them instead of, say, me, they let it drop, take a beat, and change the subject to their trip to Italy.
But I’d bet my shitty left nut I’ll be hearing about this later.
We hang out a while, but Bowie and Piper need help moving their new big-ass bedframe to the opposite wall in their bedroom. Because, of course they do.
Couldn’t be the fridge or some unwieldy entertainment center.
Nope. Their bed. In their bedroom.
Whatever.
I head up to their place… which is literally the apartment above ours, avoid looking at anything in their shared space while Bowie and I muscle the bed into three different spots before Piper taps her chin and tells us to put it back in the original spot, and then come back down to help Lara with the pretzels-gone-wrong flour explosion.
When I get to the kitchen, she’s standing tiptoe on a stool, wiping down the light fixtures.
“Whoa, easy up there,” I say, and a few things hit me in rapid succession.
First, apparently, I’m hardwired to keep this woman safe, because I’m at her side in a blink, steadying her with one hand at her hip while doing my best goalie impression— arm out, shifting up and down, trying to anticipate any weak spot that needs protecting —with the other. This girl is not going down.
Second, if we’re really going to be friends, the wayward thoughts need to stop. Which means, after I’m sure Lara isn’t in jeopardy of breaking her neck, the “no touching rule” circa sophomore year is back in effect.
It worked then. It’ll work now.
Third and last, Sylvia wouldn’t even think to wipe down the lights.
Lara chuckles. “Almost done.”
“Sorry, I was going to help clean up.” Another reason to resent the trip upstairs.
“Seriously, that mess was all me. And it didn’t take too long.” She swipes the rag over one last bit of glass. “There. Like it never happened.”
I nod as she reaches for my shoulder. Then with as much clinical detachment as I can muster, help her back to the floor.
