Me: People my age?
Joan: Yeah. Twenty-somethings.
Me: I will be thirty in like two months.
Joan: How do you want to celebrate? Maybe by eating dinner at 4 pm, and then staying in to play Scrabble.
Me: Ha. Ha.
Joan: We could always go bird-watching. Oh, the VFW is hosting Bingo. We can do that.
Me: You’re hilarious.
“Dorian, please.” Imogen had her makeup brush in hand as she gave me an expectant look. “No smiling right now.”
“Right. Sorry about that. Again.”
My phone buzzed. I relaxed my face and glanced down.
Joan: Just want to make sure you usher in your thirties with style. What do big-deal Hollywood actors usually do to celebrate birthdays? Rent out an entire club?
Yes, frequently, I didn’t say.
Joan: Sink a yacht?
Oof, she’d read about that one, too.
Joan: Orgies?
Me: What? No. That is not my idea of fun.
Joan: Not enough NDAs?
Me: Too many bodily fluids.
Joan: Gross.
Me: You started it.
Me: Besides, I don’t actually like to share.
No follow-up came through, and I could feel my pulse in my throat. She had to know what I was implying. That I wanted her. No one else. Just her.
After maybe the longest twenty seconds of my life, her two-word reply appeared on my screen, doing nothing to calm my racing heartbeat.
Joan: Me either.
I stared at my phone until a throat cleared pointedly.
A quick look in the mirror showed Imogen staring at me, arms crossed and waiting, while my smile grew out of control.
Hurriedly, I typedGoodand hit send before placing my phone upside down on the table next to me.
It was a struggle, but I managed to keep my face neutral for the next forty minutes so Imogen could do her job.
After all, I was a professional. At least, that’s what I kept reminding myself.
When I got a break later in the morning, I texted Sophia and had her pass along Georgie’s joke of the day. We’d started doing it a while back. I borrowed Joan’s chicken tender joke. Sophia replied with a photo of Georgie’s giggling face.
