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Harlow’s brows lift. “Oh, really. Interesting. And weird. Why twenty-four? Why not twenty or twenty-five? Some nice, normal round number?”
“Exactly,” I reply over the rim of my coffee, beginning to regret all this purging of my soul. “Why be normal? Also, twenty-four is auspicious in numerology. It symbolizes a shit ton of stuff, including openness to adventure and new experiences. And twenty-four is not quite halfway to thirty and is therefore a much less mortifying age to lose your virginity than twenty-five.”
Harlow seems to take this explanation at face value, but Evie drops her knees to the floor and leans her forearms on the table, her expression sharpening as she says, “It’s also the number of love and romance. And don’t tell me you didn’t know that, or I’ll have to rethink my opinion of you as an honest human who can be trusted to tell me when my overalls have gotten so covered in paint it isn’t cute anymore.”
I hide my face behind my mug as I mumble, “Yes, fine, it is, but that doesn’t matter. Sam and I are just friends. He came to offer me a job. That’s it.”
Harlow nods. “Well, obviously. If he’s going to be your new boss, banging would be a conflict of interest. And probably against company protocol. I doubt they’re keeping Paradisus such a nice place to work by allowing bosses to hire and bang their subordinates in the same week.”
I almost blurt out that Sam won’t be my boss, that’s he’s with another division of the company, but take a drink of coffee instead. Withholding information isn’t lying, and it will be easier to deal with Sam and my friends being in the same room if they don’t know we’re hanging out solely to get comfortable enough to fuck and run.
Or fuck and walk calmly away.
This won’t be an angsty, drama-filled thing. It will be a simple, practical, logical thing, a great way to break the sex ice and realize I’m not going to drown in its fraught waters before I move to London and find a sexy drum player with an accent who wants to erotically rub my feet while I admire his ripped forearms.
Which reminds me…
“And from what I understand, I can work remotely and stay in New York as long as I want,” I say. “But eventually, you guys are going to move in with your fiancés and leave me behind.” I jab a finger toward the door. “Cam’s already moved in with Nat. We can handle splitting the rent three ways instead of four, but when you move out, I’ll have to get new roommates anyway. At that point, it might be better to take a leap and have a new adventure.”
“Even when we move out, we’re always going to have time for you,” Evie says in her soothing, therapist voice. “You’re our family and that’s never going to change.”
“But it will change, Evie,” I say, just as calmly stating the facts. “And that’s okay. Things are supposed to change. That’s life. I just want to make sure I still feel like the main character in my life, not the sidekick who babysits and stops by for brunch once a month and never has anything interesting to talk about.”
“Brunch will be a weekly affair if I have anything to say about it,” Harlow says before setting her mug down with a sigh. “But I get it. And you’re right. You have to be the main character. And I can’t promise I’ll be in New York for much longer, either. Once I’m done with grad school next year, I told Derrick we could start looking at relocating. And there are only so many cities with NHL teams for him to manage and a need for forensic accountants. We’ll have to be flexible about where we end up, and New York probably isn’t in the cards.” She props her chin into her hand with a heavier rush of breath. “Everything is changing, and I’m super happy and melancholy about it at the same time.”
“Bittersweet,” Evie says with a nod. “But it’s okay to feel that way. Bittersweet reminds us to treasure every beautiful moment as it passes. Because it might never come again. That’s also life.”
“Where’s my beetle?” I ask.
Evie blinks. “Your what?”
“The beetle I made out of that napkin.”
“It’s on the floor,” she says, glancing down. “You threw it at me, remember?”
“Right.” I make a come-hither motion with my curled fingers. “Hand it over. I need to throw it at you again. For making things deep when Harlow has a hangover and I’m still struggling with the reality that I’m in my mid-twenties.”
Harlow grunts beneath her breath. “She has a point.”
Evie huffs. “Fine. If you two want shallow, you can go get your phones and see who’s fighting on social media.” She stands and starts toward the kitchen, before turning back to us with a pointed finger and narrowed eyes. “But seriously, don’t you dare. You promised not to get on your phones during a meal for an entire week, and a promise is a promise. I’m going to make pancakes from the batter Cam whipped up before he left last night. It has carrots and raisins in it, which is sketchy as heck, but still smells incredible. How many do you want, and should we top them with maple syrup or fresh whipped cream?”
“Both,” Harlow says. “And pecans. I’ll chop some, while you flip cakes. I’m feeling much better. Coffee heals all wounds.”
“I’m going to stick with something non-sugary after all the cake and macarons last night,” I say, pushing my chair back. “But you guys can go crazy in the kitchen. I need to start a load of laundry before it gets too late. I’ll grab a sandwich from the cart on the corner while I’m downstairs.”
“Oh, get me an egg and cheese on a plain bagel, too,” Harlow says. “I want all the breakfast foods and poutine for lunch. Fries covered in gravy also heal all wounds, especially hangover ones.”
“Ew,” Evie says. “How can you eat that stuff? It looks like it’s already been through at least one digestive cycle.”
“Because it’s delicious as hell and I refuse to be shamed for my love of gravied fries,” Harlow shoots back.
I leave them arguing about whether the creation of gravy itself is a stain on the face of humanity and head into my room to grab my overflowing laundry sack. On my way to the closet, I pass my phone on the desk and see a new notification.
Leaning down, I see it’s from Sam, a fact that has my heart racing with a disconcerting mixture of hope and worry that he’s texting to cancel, as I read—A buddy just offered me two tickets to a jazz show tonight. He’s too slammed with work to make it. Would you like to go after we complete your mysterious errand? It’s in a little speakeasy not far from your place. Could be fun. And we could get milkshakes after, my treat.
I sag against my desk chair with a goofy grin.
Milkshakes were our thing back in high school. Any time one of us was sad, we’d head over to The Dairy Maiden, a total dive by the shore that had the best malted milkshakes I’ve ever tasted to this day.
