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12
DEXTER
Iclick Save on my latest draft and flip the laptop closed. It’s good. It’s better than good. It’s ready. I pull my phone from my pocket and text Hank.
‘Come over here. I have something to show you.’
Hank texts back immediately. ‘That’s what my date said last night. Turned out to be a mole on her chin with a long black hair growing out of it.’
I laugh, because I know that was Hank’s idea of comedy. ‘Trust me. No hairy moles. Just Shakespeare’s brilliance. And mine.’
‘It’s done?’
‘Done. And brilliant. As I may have mentioned.’
There’s a short pause. ‘I’ll decide that, if you please.’
‘Bring food. Starving.’
The immediate knock on my door tells me that my chances of being fed are slim. Hank must have texted the mole comment on the run. I open the door, put my fist to my chest, and say, in my most dramatic and carrying voice, “Behold my greatness and glory.”
Unfortunately for both my greatness and my glory, here stands Joey Harker. She backs up a step and blinks at me.
I stammer for a second, then say, “Sorry. I thought you were someone else.” Not better. Not any better at all.
Why does this woman make me do such idiotic things?
She steps farther away from the door. “I guess I should have made an appointment. Sorry. I’ll just leave you this.” She shoves a folder into my hands and turns away.
“Wait—no. Don’t go. Sorry about that that. Are these the mock-ups?”
She nods, but she’s still walking away.
“Joey, why are you leaving? Come in and let’s look at them together.”
She speaks over her shoulder, still walking away. Doesn’t even slow down. “I’ve seen them. And you’re expecting someone.”
No way. Does she want me to beg? Okay. I can beg. “Please come back? Please, please, please?”
There it is. That smile. The tiny dimple to the left of her mouth. The line of perfect teeth peeking through those lips that I would really love to stop thinking about. I hold the door open wider, and she turns and comes back.
She comes back.
I watch her walk in and remember the last time she came to my apartment. How could I not think about it, with her standing right there next to the couch? The couch where we . . .
She has to be thinking about it, too. Doesn’t she? But maybe not. She ran out on me. And I can never tell what she’s thinking. Because it’s been almost a week and we haven’t even spoken. She didn’t answer any of my texts. I think she’s avoiding Lola’s so she doesn’t have to see me.
But now she’s here. Back in my place. Maybe the last week of radio silence was a blip. We can recover.
I flop down in my favorite corner of the couch. She sits in the chair opposite. The farthest corner from me. Ouch.
All right. Moving on.
She points to the folder in my hands. “The photos are in there, and I have some fabric samples that we can print on. I’ve done one, just through my little printer, and I think it looks pretty good.”
I open the folder and pull out the photo prints. She’s still talking.
“These are graded from darkest to lightest, see? I was thinking we could set the stage so the parts that take place in the deep forest are all on one side, and the bright stuff happens over on the other side.”
