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Her exit pulled the pent-up air from my lungs. I slumped, no longer held upright by indignation and a need to prove she couldn’t walk all over me.
“Telling off Buffy Darlington.” Sloane’s green eyes glittered with rare admiration. “Impressive.”
“I didn’t tell her off,” I refuted. “I presented an alternative viewpoint.”
“You told her off,” Isabella said. “There was a moment when I thought she would have a coronary and collapse right into your eggs. Buffy and Benedict, the new brunch combo.”
We stared at each other for a moment, stunned by the cheesiness of her joke, before we broke into laughter.
Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe we were all delirious from overworking and lack of sleep, but once we started, we couldn’t stop. Tears sprung to my eyes, and Isabella’s shoulders shook so hard the table rattled. Even Sloane was laughing.
“Speaking of B names,” Isabella said after our mirth finally died down to a manageable level. “Did I hear wrong, or did she say she was here with her friendBunny?”
“Bunny Van Houten,” I confirmed with a grin. “Wife of Dutch shipping magnate Dirk Van Houten.”
Horror wiped the remaining amusement from Isabella’s face.
“Who comes up with these names?” she demanded. “Is there a rule that the richer you are, the uglier your name has to be?”
“They’re notthatbad.”
“Buffy and Bunny, Viv! Buffy and Bunny!” Isabella shook her head. “Once I have the power, I’m banning all names beginning with the letters B and U. God forbid they add a Bubby to their group.”
I couldn’t help it. I burst into laughter again, with Isabella and Sloane joining me soon after.
God, I needed this. Food, drinks, and a fun, silly morning with my friends, the Buffy incident notwithstanding. Sometimes, it was the simple things in life that kept us going.
We lingered for another hour before we left. I insisted on covering the meal since they’d spent the majority of the time listening to my problems, and I’d just paid the check when my phone buzzed.
My heart flipped when I read the new message, but I kept my expression neutral as we exited the restaurant.
“There’s a new romantic comedy coming out next week,” Sloane said. “Let’s watch it.”
Isabella eyed her with suspicion. “Will you actually watch the movie this time, or will you just complain during the entire film?”
Sloane slid on her sunglasses. “I don’t complain. I provide real-time criticism of the film’s application in the real world.”
“It’s a rom-com,” I said. “They’re notsupposedto be realistic.”
Some people liked to unwind by reading or getting a massage. Sloane liked to watch romantic comedies and type up dissertation-length papers detailing every single thing she disliked about the movie.
And yet, she kept watching them.
“We’ll agree to disagree,” she said. “Next Thursday after work. Does that work?”
We’d survived years of rom-com evisceration. We’d survive another night.
After we confirmed the movie date and parted ways, I wound my way up Fourth Street toward Washington Square Park.
My pulse thudded louder with each step until it crescendoed at the sight of a familiar tall, dark figure standing by the arch.
The park bustled with street musicians, photographers, and students in NYU sweatshirts, but Dante stood out like a slash of boldness against a faded backdrop. Even in a plain white T-shirt and jeans, his presence was powerful enough to draw not-so-subtle stares from passersby.
Our eyes connected across the street. Electricity crackled down my spine, and it took me an extra beat to start walking after the last car passed.
I stopped two feet from him. The sounds of music, laughter and car honks fell away, as if he existed within a force field that prevented any outside intrusion.
“Hi,” I said, oddly breathless.
