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Sullivan laughs. “Is that like the assistant to the regional manager?”
“Yes,” Martinique breathes, staring into his eyes like she didn’t hear a word out of his mouth.
“Theo told me all about you—she’s so lucky to be working with such a good friend.”
Funnily enough, of all the details I spilled to Sullivan over our lunch, I didn’t tell him that Martinique has become my closest friend. He figured that out for himself.
“Theo’s the best!” Martinique gives me a conspiratorial look. “If we didn’t have each other, we’d murder Angus.”
“Take out a life insurance policy first,” Sullivan advises. “But then…wait a while.”
Martinique stares at him a moment, then laughs way too hard. “Oh my god! You didn’t tell me he was funny.”
“Well, I only just told you he existed.”
“What’s up with that?” Sullivan teases. “Are you embarrassed of me?”
“No way!” Martinique rushes to my defense. Unfortunately, by blurting, “She was probably just worried you’d dump her, like Trent.”
“Martinique…,”I hiss.
“Oops!” She claps her hand over her mouth again.
“Leave it there,” I instruct. “For the rest of the party.”
“No, I’m going to put you on the payroll…” Sullivan smiles at her. “Tell me more about this Trent.”
Martinique glances back and forth between us, weighing her loyalties. Sullivan’s charm trounces a year of friendship in less than two seconds.
“He was such a dick! He dumped Theo the week before Christmas.”
When I had pneumonia.
I spent Christmas Day in the hospital, alone.
I fucking hate hospitals. I hate the lowered voices and quiet shuffling, broken by that very specific beep from the monitoring machines. I hate the smell, bland food and antiseptic. And most of all…I hate the memories.
Martinique came to visit me the day after, bringing a whole basket of her mama’s sweet potato pie and rolls and leftover turkey. We used the rolls to make pie-and-turkey sandwiches.
But other than that, it was about the worst week of my life.
Well…second worst.
Martinique was just the receptionist, then. We were barely more than acquaintances. Still, she was the only one who came to see me. Angus was scuba-diving in the Maldives.
“It wasn’t going anywhere,” I say. “It was good we broke up.”
“Good forme.” Sullivan links his fingers with mine.
I know he means that in the most selfish way possible, but even so, his hand feels nice wrapped around mine.
And the look he gives me is surprisingly sympathetic.
“His loss,” he says, too low for Martinique to hear, spoken just for me.
Uh, oh.
A Sullivan bearing gifts is a dangerous creature. First the coffee and sandwich, then the clothes, and now he’s being nice to me?
