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“Who gave you these?” My best friend cocks her head curiously at the blooms while I busy myself gathering paper plates and napkins. The smell of the pizza in the oven makes my empty stomach roar.
I pause before telling her.
Why do I pause? What am I hiding? He did it right out in public, so she’ll find out eventually anyway.
“Mr. Rushmore. How weird is that? What do you want to drink with your pizza?” I ask, opening the cupboard to retrieve glasses.
“Ridley’s dad? Why? That’s so random. Just water for me, thanks.”
I shrug and pour two waters from the filtered water spout on the door of the fridge. “I don’t know. I guess he’s a fan of the theater. Maybe that’s going t
o be his pet project this year at Greenbridge. You know how he is, he ping pongs from one thing to the next. Two years ago it was the activity buses for the swim teams. Then the next year he got the school board to approve all organic and local food in the cafeteria.”
Addie meets my eyes as I hand her the glass of water and I study her for any hint of suspicion. I see none there, to my relief.
A good time to change the subject.
“And thank you for your flowers too, by the way. I’ll take wildflowers over roses, any day.”
“Unlike Rushmore, I don’t try to dictate what people like,” she says with a smirk.
The oven timer beeps and I remove the delicious, piping-hot veggie pizza from the oven and serve it up to my best friend. The aroma helps me forget the nervous quivering in my gut.
We take our overloaded plates and our cups over to the nearby sectional sofa and fire up the massive TV.
This is my happy place: in my pajamas, eating pizza and ice cream, binge-watching saved-up episodes of The Bachelor with my bestie. We laugh, make snarky comments, and eat. And eat some more.
Butterflies flutter uncomfortably in my stomach when it’s time for this season’s bachelor to hand out roses at the end of the episode. The activity on the screen is cheesy and not in the least bit romantic. I find myself thinking of Rushmore’s eyes when he handed me those flowers. He, unlike the bachelor, looked real and unrehearsed. Unguarded. Something I did on stage touched him, I could tell. God knows what it was in that silly musical, but something in his face was so serious and sincere, it left me shaken.
This is wrong, I tell myself. You’re only eighteen and he’s, what, in his forties, probably? I’m not sure. God, what am I thinking?
Focus on the here and now, Hunter, and stop dreaming.
I clear my throat and tear my eyes away from the TV. “Did I mention how grateful I am for you? How sad it would be to come home to an empty house after closing night?” I say to Addie.
Addie turns to me and blinks at me sweetly. “Oh my god, are you drunk? You’re not going to kiss me, are you?”
I laugh, but I meant all of it sincerely. “Ever since Mom began agreeing to speak at medical conferences, and Dad’s law practice started attracting some big-wig clients, I see them less and less. This whole summer you’ve been a godsend. I hope we can keep doing these sleepovers all through senior year. Who knows where we’ll end up after graduation.”
Addie looks at me with concern. “Of course we’ll keep having our sleepovers. And I’ll come visit you when you’re a famous movie actress someday. You can hire me to take care of your pets when I can’t find a job. Everything is going to work out perfectly?you’ll see,” she says, holding up her glass.
We clink our waters together.
“To besties,” I say.
“To besties,” she repeats.
I down my water and pad back to the kitchen to refill our cups. Salty pizza and bowls of ice cream make us drink down tons of water.
I pause at the kitchen island to look at the roses again. I consider putting them in a vase. Should I? What will my mom and dad say when they come home and see them? I’m sure I can pass it off as a random gift from the audience or the stage crew. Although, truth be told, I doubt either of my parents will ask.
I pull out a crystal vase from the curio cabinet and fill it with water, then set about cutting the rose stems to fit.
When I unwrap the flowers from their paper holder, a small card falls out onto the counter. It’s not a proper card inside an envelope like one normally gets from a florist, but a small, gray rectangle. My stomach performs a backflip when I pick it up. It’s Mr. Rushmore’s business card.
“Rushmore Hospitality Group. A. Rushmore, CEO.” Underneath his business phone number, highlighted in yellow marker, is his personal mobile. My breath catches.
He wants me to call him.
