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“So why not ask him about the future?”
“Says the woman who won’t even return the calls of her old friends. Honesty’s hard.”
Mitzi’s warm glow disappeared. “Maybe I don’t want to hang at biker bars anymore. Maybe I don’t want to drink beer and smoke cigarettes and sleep around with guys who don’t care about me.”
“I’m sorry. That was out of line.” Mary Paige had been friends with Mitzi long enough to know that she never faced anything until she was ready to. And it didn’t take a genius to add up all those Saturday nights with her mother as company and come to the conclusion that Mitzi wasn’t ready to return to the social life she’d had before the diagnosis. “Guess I hate seeing you sitting home alone when you have so much to offer.”
Mitzi crossed her arms. “I never bothered you about not getting out after Simon left you. I brought the ice cream, remember?”
“Yeah.”
“And for your information, I’m trying. I accepted a date with Robbie Theriot for this weekend.”
“The guy who fixed the transmission on your mom’s car? The one with the Sylvester the Cat tattoo?”
Mitzi’s nod seemed hesitant, as though she were braced for Mary Paige’s reaction. Well, no judgment here. She couldn’t be happier for her friend.
“That’s awesome. I’m proud of you for putting yourself out there.” Mary Paige embraced Mitzi again, letting the action convey how she felt about this brave woman who was her friend.
“I know.” After a long moment, Mitzi pulled away and blinked suspiciously fast. “Now, you better get going. Is the B-man picking you up?”
“I’m taking my own car since it’s at the flagship store, which is, like, three blocks away from his place.”
“He’s changed, you know?”
Mary Paige’s hand stilled. “Brennan?”
“No, the Easter Bunny. Of course, Brennan.”
“How would you know? You’ve never met him—only seen him when he’s come to pick me up.”
“He has to be better just for knowing you, Mary.” Mitzi smiled sweetly. “I’m so glad you came across the street to borrow an egg from Mama after you moved in. I don’t think I’ve had a friend as good as you.”
Tears pricked Mary Paige’s eyes, which would never do. She needed to be flirty and fierce, not misty and maudlin. “Don’t you dare make me cry.”
“I can’t help you’re an angel,” Mitzi said, directing her toward the door.
“You so know I’m no angel. I’m just a person who does what a person should do, Mitzi. I’m kind of tired of being painted as some paragon of perfection. I’m not. I have a wart right here on my left thigh.” She pointed at her leg. “And I once poured milk on a kid’s head because he called my mother Farmer Freda and made a milking motion at pretend boobies. And one year I paid my taxes late. And I barfed in my mom’s begonias after drinking vodka then lied about it.”
“The horror!” Mitzi called behind her as she grabbed the sparkly red clutch Mama Cascio had found in her trousseau trunk and loaned to Mary Paige. “Go have fun. Tell Brennan you love him. Be bad, Mary Paige!”
Mary Paige rolled her eyes and trotted down the steps, heading toward her faithful compact car and a night of possibility.
She’d never been happier. Never. Brennan had been attentive, humorous, and fun these past few weeks. They hadn’t fought once over any issues, and he’d rolled his eyes only twice. Once when a volunteer at the Jammin’ Jingle Run wanted him to invest in some exercise program she’d created. And the other when his grandfather had introduced her as the mild-mannered sweet servant who’d raised him from the depths of wet cardboard and destruction. She wasn’t sure if that eye roll was the result of Mr. Henry’s dramatic embellishment or because his grandfather had called her mild-mannered. She was fairly certain it was the latter.
Marshmallow? Check. Naive? Check. Mild-mannered? Not really.
Just the thought of their shared enthusiasm when they were in bed, coupled with the fun they had working together, made her smile as she reversed out of the drive and headed toward the glittering city and the party that waited.
And the man who waited.
As she drove, she contemplated Mitzi’s challenge.
Tell him you love him.
Before she did anything so drastic, she had to define her own feelings. Did she love him?
Smittenwas the word that came to mind. On some level, it probably went deeper than that. The potential for something great hovered beneath her heart, bumping against it, nudging her to open and risk so it might come to fruition.
