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I look up, dropping the smile as I lock eyes with David. “But you better send me camping pictures. Got it?” I point to the chief troublemaker—my brother’s son.
David gives me a good soldier salute.
After we’re done eating, and David and Zach weave to the exit ahead of us, Nick says, “Like father, like son.”
“Yes. Your kid likes to stir the pot.”
Nick rolls his eyes. “I meant yours.”
“Yeah, that seems to be the case.”
I go home with my troublemaker, and I try not to make any more trouble of my own. I’ve got this guy to focus on, and that’s what matters.
A few days later, though, I receive a thank you note in the mail, and it makes me want to break all my promises.
The card is simple, with an illustration of a daisy on the front. Inside it says:Thank you. I can’t wait to wear them all.
It’s a miracle I don’t stalk over to her apartment that instant.
19
FUNNY MEETING YOU HERE
Jules
Finn sticks to his promise over the next few weeks. I don’t hear any more from him, not about panties, or planning for Paris, or anything.
I don’t reach out to him either. I busy myself with work, and Krav Maga, and girls’ nights in for poker, and out for dancing. One night, our crew goes to the lounge where Camden works, and she croons a sexy torch song for us—Harlow, Layla, Ethan, and Tessa, who’s here with him.
“Girl, you’ve got pipes,” Ethan says to Camden after she nails a tune about longing.
Tessa seconds her boyfriend with, “Give us more, you rock star.”
Camden flicks her auburn hair, then says to the two of them into the mic, “If you insist.”
She belts out another tune, mesmerizing the audience.
* * *
Camden and I walk home together after her last set. In a comfortable lull in our usual chitchat, she nudges my elbow. “So, Paris is soon. Will you do our list?”
“Obviously.” How could I forget our Someday in Europe After Graduationlist.
“Good. I might need you to add a few things.” Camden taps her chin, staring at the starless Manhattan sky. “Like, have dinner with a handsome Frenchman. Or a handsome American.”
“That won’t happen.”
She hums doubtfully. “I don’t know. Seems like you two can’t keep your hands off each other. Or his dick out of your mouth,” she adds as we pass a martini bar, Olive and Dry, with evening crowds spilling onto the open terrace.
“Why do I tell you anything?” I faux lament.
“Because you love me,” she says, batting her lashes.
“Truly, madly, and deeply.” I mean that from the bottom of my weird, reserved, wounded heart. The heart that had been craving friendship—and has found it again with my crew.
“Will you take lots of pics and send me stories? Regale me with tales of Paris. Who knows if I’ll ever go?”
“Oh, you’ll go,” I say confidently. “You’ll sing on some big stage. Perform with a hot guitarist or something. And become an international sensation.”
