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“I stayed on the flat.”
“Safety first.” Classic Tom. “Which means talking about quitting was all beer.”
“All beer until I hear what the top headhunters say.”
She tapped the side of her head. “That’s my roommate. Smart and sexy.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head as if she was just too much. She’d gotten humor but no smile. A smile would take that darkly dangerous thing he had going on and make it heart-flipping adorable.
Huh. Tom O’Connell, adorable. Not two concepts she’d imagined holding in her head simultaneously.
“I’ve been walking for two days and I have an early meeting. I’m going to crash,” he said.
“I’ll try to keep it down.”
He didn’t respond, other than to show her his back as he went toward his bedroom.
“Or should I turn it up so you can play too?” she called after him.
He laughed. He tried not to, there was a strangled sound, and he gave it up, making a glorious bull-stuck-in-the-mud frustrated bellow that was better than any smile.
And she gave it a rest that night. Which meant she was
battle-ready for the text war with Elsie Monday morning.
With Tom gone early, she had the apartment to herself, and since she didn’t need to worry about keeping out of his way she planned to take her time with breakfast on the balcony. She had feeds, news and social to check, but made the mistake of looking at her texts.
The bikes are wrong.
She’d had them delivered.
Broken?
Wrong. They’re the same.
She should have called, but talking to Elsie would disturb that peace. What’s wrong with that?
They can’t be the same.
She looked at those words while she ate a banana. They made no better sense after the injection of potassium. Why not?
Because you can’t tell them apart.
The dumb thing was asking. Wasn’t that the point, for neither kid to feel more special? That’s why one new bike had been an unacceptable solution. After an hour of research into the best, safest options, she bought two nine-speed Cleary Meerkats in gender-neutral very orange. Not the most expensive bike at six hundred dollars, but not the cheapest, like they stocked in Target. It was meant to be good for two years’ worth of heavy-duty use.
Put different stickers on them. Paint one black and add a skull and crossbones or whatever the junior school version of that was.
That doesn’t work. You just don’t get it.
She opened the phone keypad, then closed it. Talking to Elsie would ruin the morning. She only had a small quota of Chicago mornings left to enjoy. The kids had new bikes that would get them to school and home again. They’d work out how to tell them apart, or not. They were the same, it hardly mattered. She pushed the phone away and stretched. Five more minutes of peace and she’d get dressed, and go join the rat race.
Even the bing the phone made to indicate Elsie wasn’t leaving it alone was annoying. She didn’t have to read that next text. She did a half-hearted sun salute and let the phone do its thing unattended. She didn’t get how Elsie could make her feel bad when she’d done what was asked of her. Families were supposed to support you. The Dalgettys existed to make her feel inadequate either because she wasn’t generous enough, or she didn’t deserve what she’d made of herself.
Sucker, sucker, sucker. She picked up the phone and opened Elsie’s text stream.
You think the world should revolve around you.
Always did.
