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"Take me through the steps." I slip into my usual dynamic with her. She's good at a lot of things. Preparing food and beverages don't make the list.
"Coarse grind, water at two hundred, four minutes." Her brow furrows. "Is it four minutes?"
"Perfect." I wrap my arms around her. "Thanks for the coffee."
She sinks into the embrace. "Thank me when you taste it." She laughs, the same I can't cook to save my life, can I self-deprecating humor she's been using since we were kids.
For a little while, we're normal.
This is normal.
Two best friends hanging out together.
Only she didn't know I was here. So she must have come to see Damon. So there's nothing normal about this.
The timer beeps.
Daphne presses the plunger of the French Press. She stares at the device with distrust for a moment, then she moves to the bagels. "By the pool or in the dining room?"
"The pool, of course." It's a nice day. More importantly, the pool is well out of earshot of the action upstairs.
We set up on the patio table, take our seats, gush over the view.
"Does Damon know you're coming?" I ask as I pour coffee for everyone and select a bagel; they're all plain, of course. Daphne is a bagel purist.
"No," she says. "I just wanted to stop by and say hi. It's a nice bonus you're here too."
Right. It's normal I'm here. For some reason, I need to articulate.
"What happened last night? Did Damon torture you?"
Not the way she means. I offer my most non-committal shrug.
"No?" she asks. "No bragging about how you got too drunk? Just wait until he wakes up. He'll start banging cymbals as revenge."
Huh? "When have you ever got drunk?"
"After…" She clears her throat in a gesture that can only mean after my long-distance relationship fell apart in horrible fashion, and I tried to drink my way out of heartbreak.
That was a few years ago, but it still hurts her. It's just hard to imagine any morning where she showed up hungover and Damon was sober enough to tease her about her headache and nausea.
Come to think of it—
Have I seen Damon drink at all in the last few weeks?
There's nothing here, supposedly. Maybe there's something in his room. Or in one of the drains in the pool. Maybe he sneaks out here with whiskey.
We've been working together, day and night, but it's work, not play. I have no idea what he does when he's finished.
He had a drink last night, didn't he? Something with a lime.
"Has he been torturing you, in general?" she asks. "With the project?"
"Only in an artistic way," I say.
"He won't let you use enough of the… oh, who's that artist you love, who you always want to write like?"
"Which one?" I ask.
She hums a chorus, but I have absolutely no idea what it's supposed to be. When I don't catch it, she waves never mind and looks to the big, blue sky. "It's a beautiful day."
"It is," I say.
"Are you and Damon working all day?"
We should start on the project, yes. If we can keep our hands off each other. "Probably."
"What about family dinner?"
Shit. I have to face all my annoying family members. "Until then. Why? Do you want to come?" I say it more as a question than an invitation, but I want her to come. I miss her. The Daphne who sits and makes fun of The Matrix with me, who isn't constantly worried about her brother, who has time for silliness. The version of me who's here, right now, who isn't weighed down by heartbreak. "Please come."
"Oh, maybe." She feigns disinterest as she sips her coffee. "Will Jackson be there?"
I arch a brow. "Why?"
"No reason."
"Really? No reason why you mention my older brother?"
She swallows another sip of coffee. "No. I just… would you hate me if I had a crush on him?"
"No!" Inside, I squeal. Jackson and Daphne would be a completely adorable couple. And he's the kind of guy she needs. Responsible, mature, level-headed. "You two would be great together."
"It's not like that. I don't want to date anyone seriously right now. With school and then residency. I want to have a fling. And don't worry. I don't want your brother for that. Even though he is so fucking hot."
"Okay, now you're being gross."
She laughs. "Sorry. I guess I'm used to friends talking about Damon's charms."
"Which charms are those?" I ask.
She sinks into the familiarity of the joke. "I think they're Uzi and A.K." She flexes her arms in a showy fashion, alluding to Damon's guns.
"I've seen better." Really, he wasn't nearly as built when we were younger. Or even six months ago. Does he live in the gym?
"The tattoos too."
"The personality ruins the whole thing," I say.
"Of course. But some women aren't as evolved as you. They don't want the person. They want the muscles."
