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I wait for him to concur, to throw in his two cents, but all he does is offer a brisk nod.
“We’re in agreement then.” I stick out my hand across the table. “This is a strictly platonic situationship. Purely academic. You’re practically my intern.”
Finally, he cracks a smile. “Friends,” he echoes, shaking my hand.
A thought occurs to me as we’re standing to leave, making me falter.
“Do me a favor, would you, friend? Don’t mention the Jack thingto anyone. It isn’t worth upsetting the whole house over. Things will get complicated.”
“My lips are sealed.”
At the exit, it’s Nate’s turn to hesitate.
“So, ah, this friendship thing. Are friends allowed to text each other?”
My traitorous heart flips like it’s competing for gold in Olympics gymnastics.
“Depends what,” I answer.
“Hello, how are ya? How’s uni? Tell me about your research.You know. Purely academic,” he mimics, biting his lip like he’s fighting a grin.
“Yeah…I guess that’s okay.” I bite my lip too, but for other reasons. “As long as we operate under my dad’s golden rule: don’t text anything you wouldn’t want to see screenshotted and on the front page of the papers.”
“That’s a good rule.”
Our gazes lock, and it takes some effort on my part to break the eye contact. I hastily reach for the door handle.
Nate beats me to it, holding the door open for me. “All right then, Abbey. I’ll text you.”
23
I’VE NEVER LIKED SHOPPING.MOSTLY BECAUSEIDESPISE TRYINGon clothes. There’s the violence of nonsensical sizing practices of fashion brands, but also this hygiene video we watched in sixth grade about body fluids, bacteria, and black lights that left me shaking in a cold sweat at my desk. To this day, I can’t go into a changing room and squeeze my ass into a pair of jeans without thinking about every ass that’s come before mine.
I am one hundred percent that chick in the restroom shooting people dirty looks in the mirror when they don’t wash their hands.
Which is why I’ve put off the question of what to wear to the ball for weeks before finally mentioning it to my dad to ballpark what a reasonable spending limit might be. I left him a voicemail overnight and woke up to a text message with an address to a private atelier.
Lee has a prior engagement (and if I’m honest about it, I’m not sure I can handle his particular approach to styling me today), so I extend the olive branch to Celeste instead. She doesn’t miss the opportunity to remind me I’m her sworn nemesis for not inviting her to the ball, but the chance to go on a dress binge is enough for her to declare a truce.
In the cab on the way to Celeste’s flat, I get a text from my super platonic buddy Nate, who kept to his word and has been messaging me here and there over the past week.
Nate: Hello, how are ya. How’s uni?
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. Damn him for being so charming.
Me: School’s great. How’s bassisting?
Nate: That’s not a word.
Me: I’m a word creator. Sort of like a content creator, but with words.
Nate: You really didn’t need to add the second part. I understood the concept of word creation without it.
We’re not swimming in profound conversations, he and I, but we also both know it needs to remain that way.
I tuck my phone into my purse when Celeste slides into the back seat. It isn’t until our cab pulls up in front of the building that I realize this excursion is on a whole other level.
“You’re kidding,” Celeste exclaims, stepping out of the car in downtown London. She gapes at the sign over the door of the nondescript old building. “Thisis the friend of your dad’s?”
