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Four
Sage
“Harper,you’re such a bad influence on me,” I murmur into the phone that’s propped between my ear and shoulder as I pull the steaming cup of coffee off the Keurig. It’s my fourth of the day, even though I’ve been swearing I’ll cut back. Tomorrow’s another day, though, and I’ve got a few more hours of marketing reports to sift through.
“No, I’m a good influence. That’s why you hired me. First, for my mad design skills. But mostly because I keep you from being freaking boring. Now come on. Those marketing reports aren’t going to disappear, and reading them isn’t going to change anything right now. Let’s go. You’re turning into a boring old hermit in that freaking condo of yours.”
“Okay, I’ll have you know that I went to Target twice yesterday, and I even took a spinning class this morning. I’m not turning into a hermit. A hermit, by definition, never leaves the house.”
“Well, in my definition, a hermit never leaves the house to do anything fun. Sage, are you seriously trying to tell me that Target and spinning class are the epitome of your social life right now? Come on. You’re freaking twenty-five, you’re gorgeous, and you’re loaded. You’re supposed to be enjoying it. Get out. That’s the beauty of working for yourself. You can decide when you get a vacation.”
I shake my head as I set my coffee on the end table. Monticello is meowing at his bowl, so I lean down and give his clammy skin a pat before filling up his black dish that says Prince. Barcelona ambles out from behind the television, his safe spot. He sits beside the dish, pawing at his whiskers before leaning down to the bowl as well.
Harper keeps talking about spinsters and crazy cat ladies and other terms I should find offensive, but I don’t. I know Harper just worries about me. In truth, she’s not completely wrong. I am turning a little boring. Actually, a lot boring.
Of course, there’s always work. Work’s been a blast lately.
Spoken like a true workaholic, I know. Nevertheless, I’ve always felt like if you’re doing what you love, it’s not really work. And I’ve also always felt like when you get complacent about money and schedules, that’s when you fail. Failure is not a word in my vocabulary, never has been—the one positive thing my parents left me with.
“Are you listening to me, or are you petting those cats right now like you always are?”
“Guilty as charged,” I say, standing up to walk over to my coffee and the file of reports.
“Well, listen. I’m not taking no for an answer. Boss or not, I’m telling you that you have no choice in this matter. When’s the last time you went out to a bar?”
I mentally tick back the weeks. “Probably the beginning of May,” I reply.
“You are aware it’s June 10 right now, aren’t you?”
“And your point?”
“You’re losing your touch, Sage Everling.”
I glance at the reports, work beckoning me forward. But then I think about the bar scene, about how long it really has been since I’ve gotten out. It’s been my longest dry spell in a while—self-imposed, which makes it even worse.
“You’re right.” The words roll off my tongue easier than I expected, but I can admit when I’m wrong. Harper’s right. She’s good for me. She reminds me what life is about and when I need to loosen up. And I feel the unquenchable need to escape for a while, to relieve some stress in the best way.
“Wait a second,” Harper says, and I can imagine her stance, her head flipping as she tosses her two black braids behind her. “Did you just admit I’m right?”
“Yes. You’re right. It’s been about five weeks since Rocky, and I guess work can wait. A woman has her needs, and I’m feeling like I could go for a good challenge tonight. Plus, it’s tourist season. My favorite, and the best time for no-strings-attached fun.”
“That’s the spirit. So what do you think? Professional type? Artsy? What are you going for?”
I smile as I head to my room to pick out my go-to going out outfit. “You know, Harper Renault, not every woman’s best friend is this nonchalant about casual sex. Some best friends actually hope their friend finds a serious relationship.”
“Yeah, but I know that’s not your gig. Every woman has her own gig, you know?”
“Yes. Besides, your obsession with your one-and-only is enough serious relationship for the both of us. Anytime I want to feel depressingly traditional, I live vicariously through you. You talk about me losing my touch and being boring. I mean, pretty soon you’re going to be married with the white picket. Pretty soon your weekly excitement will be Target.”
“Well, that’s why I’m glad I have you, with your eternal prowess. I can live vicariously through you when I become a boring, washed-up housewife. We really do balance each other out beautifully, as friends of course. We’d be terrible lovers.”
I shake my head at her comment and at the thought of artsy, overall-wearing Harper being the soccer mom type. It’s actually a riot.
“I don’t think that’s going to happen in this lifetime. I’m happy that Brad is making you happy, even if I do think sex with one man for the rest of your life is a tad morose.”
“Well, you play love your way, and I’ll play mine. But still, player or not, you are being a bit boring lately. Let’s get back on the winning streak, what do you say? I’ll pick you up in an hour. The Marooned Pirate sound good?”
“Perfect,” I reply. I love the loud atmosphere there. I love that few people recognize me in the dim lights.
