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“And how are you ever going to know unless you ask?” Martinique says with maddening practicality.
“I was thinking I’d just wait and observe, kind of see how it goes…”
“Perfect. That should get you right where you want to be by the time you’re both eighty.”
I sigh. Martinique makes everything seem so easy and so obvious. It isn’t—not for me.
“I’m not you, Martinique; guys don’t just fall all over themselves trying to date me?—“
“This one does.”
“He’s pretending.”
“He’s not pretending.”
“I just told you?—“
“Babe, nobody’s that good an actor. I’ve seen how he looks at you.”
I want to believe that. God, I want to believe it with all my soul. But Martinique is biased. She once told me I looked stunning in the same romper that Angus said made me look like a toddler with a saggy diaper.
Martinique can tell I’m not convinced. “He wouldn’t be hooking up with you if he didn’t like you,” she insists.
“It’s not that I don’t think he likes me at all…” I sigh. “I just don’t think he feels…quite the same as me.”
I don’t see how he could.
The way I feel is outrageous, over the top, and out of control. It’s too much, too soon, all-encompassing and all-consuming.
I don’t justlikemy fake boyfriend…
I’m head over heels in love with him.
34
THEO
When everything’s set up for the party, I leave Martinique at Angus’ house and drive back to Sully’s place to change my clothes.
Sullivan, ever punctual and ever prepared, is already dressed in a gray suit, his hair still slightly damp from his shower, skin flushed and face freshly shaved.
The sight of him puts a painful twist in my chest, part pleasure, part longing. It’s like the last day of vacation—I’ve never appreciated what I’m looking at more, while already aching for how soon I might lose it.
“How’s Merrick doing?” I ask.
“Excellent,” Sully says. “He ate all the leftover soupandthe spaghetti from last night.”
“I was going to have that for breakfast,” Reese complains, joining us in the kitchen.
“Then maybe you should have woken up before two,” Sully says.
Reese gives him a blank look. “But it’s Sunday?”
“Nice outfit,” I note.
Reese is wearing grandpa trousers and penny loafers, an open shirt covered in silver sequins layered over a white undershirt and several chain necklaces.
He gives me a grin as bright as his shirt, slightly lopsided to the left, the opposite of Sully’s. “I call it ‘Disco Sleaze.’”
