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Sylvia keeps starting up a conversation as we try to say our goodbyes, and Mary hugs me for the third time. But we eventually usher them out the door, and I turn my attention to a clearly tipsy Sage, who is holding a platter of cookies with a beaming smile. She stumbles, knocking her shoulder into an industrial-sized washing machine.
“Better get her to bed,” Gladys mumbles under her breath.
“On it,” I reply with a huff. Peaches giggles at me as I take her by the arm and steer her toward the door that leads up to her apartment.
“You’re not scowling,” she says with a slur in her voice, tripping over the first step and sending the cookies flying onto the floor.
Rolling my eyes, I help her pick them up and wrinkle my face in disgust as she pops one into her mouth.
“You’re a mess,” I say. “And I am scowling.”
“No, you’re not,” she replies with a laugh. “You’re smiling. Ever since that gala, you stopped smiling.”
I pause for a moment as I let that sink in. Of course, it’s true, and I hadn’t even realized it. He did ruin my mood. And I’ve been a bit of a jerk ever since.
But that’s what I want, right? For her to keep her distance, to never cross a line or let anything grow between us. The longer she sees me as a broody asshole, the better. Right?
Once we get the cookies picked up, we finish the climb up her stairs, and as soon as I hear Roscoe yipping on the other side, I realize that she’s right; I am smiling.
I’ll blame this one on the tequila.
“Roscoooooe,” Sage croons as the front door opens and the three-legged rat-sized dog starts bouncing against our legs. She picks him up and he starts kissing her face affectionately.
When she looks up at me again, she stops and points with wide eyes. “See! You’re smiling again.”
“Stop it,” I grumble as I take the cookies to the kitchen and dump them into the trash before she can eat any more.
“He needs to go out,” she says, walking toward the fire escape. I step in front of her just as she stumbles again.
“I’ll take him,” I bellow, stealing the dog from her arms.
“Thank God,” she replies with a hiccup. “I have to pee so bad.”
As soon as he’s out of her arms, she turns and sprints toward the bathroom on the other side of her apartment, pink waves bouncing as she runs. When I know she can’t see me, I let myself smile like it’s a secret.
Then, I carry Roscoe down the fire escape and wait for him to do his business. Once he and I are back in the apartment, I stop frozen in the kitchen area as Sage stands in nothing but her bra and panties near the couch.
“Where should we do it this time?” she asks nonchalantly.
“Do what?”
“Film the scene you wanted,” she replies with innocence.
Scoffing, I place Roscoe on the floor. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“You’re drunk.”
“So? It’s not like we’re really doing it.”
I only consider it for a moment before immediately shaking my head. “No. Still doesn’t feel right.”
The look of disappointment on her face is obvious as she crosses her arms and lets her shoulders slump forward. Then she rounds the sofa and plops down on the cushions, pulling the blankets up to cover herself.
As I’m standing there staring at her, I realize I could just leave. But I don’t.
Instead, I take the seat opposite her on the couch. She’s lying down with her head on the pillow as she looks up at me.
