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“Yelling mi pantalones es rojos isn’t going to help in this situation.”
“Ha. I know more than that. And the joke’s on you because it’s son rojos.” I glanced down at my pants. “And I think these are more orange than red.”
“I didn’t know the color for orange.”
I frowned for a minute. “I think it’s just orange. Or orange-jee.”
“No, it’s got its own name.”
“No, I think purple is the same way. Purpala, or something like that.”
“Whatever. You’re proving my point.” I pulled up Google translate on my phone.
When we moved to Miami, we had vowed to learn Spanish. I’d bought Rosetta Stone, and spent a good weekend hunched over the computer, sounding out the vowels. But then I’d started a new audiobook, and then baseball had started, and then we started trying for a baby, and learning Spanish was quietly slid to the bottom of a very tall pile, which included a lot of more interesting things.
“Ha! It is orange.” I turned my screen to show him. He paused, halfway out of backing down the driveway and looked at the proof.
“You didn’t change the second language. It’s displaying English to English.”
“Oh.” Deflated, I edited the fields, then watched as naranja populated. “Crap. It’s naranja. I was way off.”
“It’s okay, love. I love you for so much more than your brain.” He patted my knee in support.
“You’re funny,” I sniped, closing down the browser. “Besides, you don’t have to love me for my brain. You can love me for the three offers I have on the Olive Line Trail house.” I beamed at him.
“I still can’t believe you already have offers.”
“I told you it would go quick. Assuming they accept one of them.” The De Lucas should. Our best was over list price, with a fifteen day close and no financing contingency. Assuming they didn’t freak out over the control room, or find asbestos in the walls, it was virtually guaranteed.
“When will you know?”
“They said they’d let me know by morning.” I refreshed my email for the third time, hoping they had made an early decision. Nothing. I switched over to Facebook.
I scrolled past a cat meme and at least four posts with people at the beer festival. “Everyone is at that beer thing. Look, Amy and Aleja look like they’re back together.” I showed him the photo. “We should have gone. We still could. We have the tickets.”
“I thought you were trying to lie low from Chelsea.”
“I am.” I scratched at an itchy spot on the inside of my knee. Pedicant Entertainment was the main sponsor of the beer festival, which was how I originally landed two VIP tickets. Last year, we’d gone as a group—fourteen of us holding down a VIP balcony just off the stage and chugging beers every time the cannon fired. This year we’d had similar plans, our tickets and calendars set months ago.
I hadn’t officially been uninvited, but considering the last text I’d gotten from Chelsea called me a cunty dickwaffle, it probably wasn’t a good idea to show up at the VIP tent and flash my tickets. While I wasn’t exactly sure what a cunty dickwaffle was, it had cunt and dick in it, so it probably wasn’t good. Though, as Easton had so supportably pointed out, it also had waffle in it, and who doesn’t love waffles?
“Well, you need to make up with her fast,” Easton said. “The Katy Perry concert is next weekend. I know you’re willing to miss out on beer, but don’t tell me you’re skipping the musical event of the decade.”
“Don’t make fun,” I snapped at him. “You know how much I love Katy. And… I don’t know. A lot can happen in a week. She could forgive me or kill me, and I honestly don’t know which is more likely.”
A reminder flashed across my screen, interrupting my view of an abandoned baby elephant cuddling up to a German shepherd.
Kurt in town
I turned toward Easton, watching as he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, bobbing his head slightly to the music. “That, uh, guy from the website is in town tonight.”
“The guy you sent me screenshots of?”
“Yeah. He offered to meet us for a drink, if we wanted to.”
He looked over at me. “Do we want to?”
“I don’t know.” I sat back against the headrest. “I feel like we have so much going on right now.” A month ago, I was researching how to make my own face masks. Now, I had Chelsea pissed at me, had landed a major client, hooked up with said client, and was trying to fit in drinks with a complete stranger who was willing to be my husband and my sexual guinea pig.
“Are you attracted to the guy? What’s his name? Ken?”
“Kurt.” I pulled up the swinger website and logged in. “Let me show you his picture.”
