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“You didn’t need to give him a nasty look. He wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
“I—” I pause, flustered. We’re the only people around except for the receptionist, who keeps glancing over at us. “He was flirting with you.”
Azalea shrugs. “Yeah?”
“Did you—” My mind whirs. I’m uncomfortable. This entire conversation is uncomfortable. “Did youwanthim to flirt with you?”
“Not particularly, but he also didn’t deserve whateverthatwas.” She wiggles her fingers toward the chair she just vacated. “It was kind of rude.”
I lower my voice so the receptionist can’t hear. “Zale, he was staring at your chest.”
She scoffs. “Okay? Like you’ve never stared at my boobs.” My jaw drops open, but before I can answer, Azalea is turning toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go.”
I silently follow her out to the sidewalk. We stand under the hotel’s awning in silence while I order an Uber. As I pocket my phone, I look at Azalea and see that she’s already watching me, arms crossed, one eyebrow cocked. I know she’s daring me to pick up the thread of our conversation.
For about ten seconds, I hold strong. Then: “I’ve looked at your boobs before,” I confess quietly.
To my surprise, she starts laughing. The tension seeps out of my shoulders. “Yeah, you’ve looked at them more than once,” she corrects. “And my butt.”
“Oh, God.” I drag my hands down my face. “Fuck, Azalea. You must think I’m the biggest pervert.”
“Of course I don’t think you’re a pervert,” she says, like it’s the stupidest thing she’s ever heard. “Would I be three hundred miles away from home with you if I thought that?”
“You never said anything.”
“Well.” Azalea shrugs. A blush creeps up her neck, staining her cheeks. She draws her bottom lip between her teeth as she hesitates. “I don’t really…mind it.”
There’s no way I just heard that. There isno wayAzalea Medina is standing in front of me wearing a Cubs shirt and telling me that she likes it—or ‘doesn’t really mind it,’ same difference—when I check her out. This is basically the beginning of every dirty dream I’ve had over the past three years. The universe wouldn’t be that kind to me.
Except…maybe it would. Because I’m staring at her, and she’s staring at me, and I’m starting to think that I really did hear those words leave her lips.
Stupidly, I ask, “Really?”
“Really.”
“Did you…did you like him looking at you like that?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
The look she gives me is loaded and meaningful, and I think I see what she’s getting at… but I also don’t want to think too hard about it. I don’t want to get my hopes up and then be let down. “I shouldn’t have run that guy off,” I say. “I feel bad.”
“He’s fine. He’ll find someone else to hit on.” Azalea, to my absolute delight, sounds completely unbothered.
“Well, I’m still sorry.”
She makes a face. It’s warm outside, and I can see a few beads of sweat forming along her hairline. “You walked in on his third skateboarding mishap story. None of them involved him seeking the medical attention that he should have. But if you really feel bad, you can buy me dinner.”
“I was already buying your broke ass dinner.”
Azalea grins sweetly. “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
We laugh, and the weirdness is gone.
And when the Uber arrives and I stand by the open door, waiting for her to crawl in ahead of me, Idefinitelycheck out her ass.
AtWrigleyField,Ieat a bag of peanuts. I drink a beer, giving my best friend a sip here and there. I watch the Cubs trounce the Mets 12-3 and feel particularly smug about the fact that Skateboard Guy is probably somewhere in the stands, watching his team get destroyed.
I watch Azalea when the last out is recorded and the victory is sealed. She pumps her fist in the air and grins at me, not even pretending to be ambivalent.
