“Hmm” is the only response she offers me.
IthinkI won that argument.
Sofía examines the space, weaving through the main level. Outside of Doug and Molly, she’s the first person in my new home. Before I found this place, I was living in a tiny one-bedroom apartment. With Molly’s help, we spent weeks poring through catalogs and websites to furnish each room. Sofía pauses in front of the artwork—my favorite. It’s an acrylic painting, the strokes thick and chunky, of a lone surfer waiting for the next wave. A tiny dot in the massive expanse. I knew it belonged here the second I saw it online. It expressed how I felt when I moved to LA—lost, hopeless, searching for the next wave.
We reach the best part of the house, and she stops in her tracks, hands falling to her side. Floor-to-ceiling windows make up the back wall, offering a panoramic view of the ocean, the deep-blue waves crashing against the shore. “Oh, wow.”
“Best view in the house,” I say, looking at her while she watches the ocean.
“What’s all of this?”
She peruses the selection of food, dropping her bag on a barstool.
“Snacks for the presentation.” I pull out the iced matcha latte I bought from the coffee shop down the street. “I also got this for you. Since I know you like them.”
Her cheeks pinken as she takes my offering, and once again, I’m struck stupid by how pretty she is, even in the blazer. She tosses back her braid before she digs through her purse, and I busy myself with making a plate of food to avoid staring at her.
I thought I had a shot once. When we were on the research vessel.
Hope soared when she drunkenly called me cute, then brutally crashed after she saidYou’re not like any of them.
I knew what she meant. I’m not like the men she dates.
Smart.
High-status.
Successful.
I’ve heard enough through Charlie, Amy, and Mateo to connect the dots on her ideal partner.
Grace’s parting words are stuck in my mind, ever repeating:I want someone who is going somewhere in life. Someone who didn’t drop out of college for a pipe dream. I want someone who will take care of me.
So I pocketed the silly thought and kept it to myself. The only person who knows is Doug, and he would never spill my secrets.
The nauseating sensation of inadequacy settles beneath my diaphragm as Sofía pulls up her presentation on the television. After a press of her slide clicker, the screen lights up, and a photoshopped image of our friend group standing on the Australian continent appears.
A laugh rips from my lungs.
It’s horribly executed, but the humor is top tier. She takes a sip of her drink, sighs, and positions herself beside the television like this is a board meeting and not my living room.
Shoulders squared, she inhales to start what is, without a doubt, a practiced speech. I raise a hand to stop her, and her plush lips pop open in shock.
“What are you doing?”
“Presenting?”
“Get some food, sit down on the couch. There’s no need for all this formal nonsense.” I chomp on a pig in a blanket while she gawks at me. “Seriously, this is casual.”
“I’m casual,” she counters.
Because I value my life, I do not laugh. But I want to.
“Come sit.” I pat the couch beside me, wiggling to the left to make room. “After you get something to eat.”
Based on the Jurassic-era sounds emanating from Sofía’s stomach, she hasn’t eaten all day. If I had to guess, I would betmy money she was too nervous to drop something on her outfit. One of the many reasons I hate fancy clothes.
A silent showdown occurs between us. She narrows her gaze. I return the scrutiny with a beaming smile. Eventually, I win our battle, and she sets down the clicker—that she brought because she’scasual—to make herself a plate of food. With some veggies and dip and a massive serving of mac and cheese, she warily sits beside me, straight as a rod.
