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“You already do,” I say. “Pretty much every time I see you. You also ask if I’m peeling well. And tell me that I look a-peeling.”
He checks his nails theatrically. “Just to warn you, I’m peeling particularly punny and will talk fast. Therefore, Lemon, you’ll need to concentrate.”
Honey and I groan.
“When Lemon pie goes to the dentist, it’s to get fillings,” Fabio says, speaking a mile a minute. “If she goes to the doctor, it’s because of a sour stomach. If it’s the ER, they give her lemon-aid.”
I shake my head.
“Can you come clean my house?” Fabio asks, and before I can reply, he adds, “You’d be my Minute Maid.”
I debate breaking my phone, yet he’s clearly just getting started.
“Did your Russian Schweppe you off your feet?” he asks.
I take a deep inhale. What he’s doing has to be against the Geneva Convention.
“It’s too bad he’s not a cowboy,” Fabio continues.
“Why?” Honey asks.
I gape at her. “Why would you set him up like that?”
Fabio looks triumphant. “Lemons have crushes on cowboys that hang out in the Wild Zest.”
“I’m sorry,” Honey says to me and pinches Fabio’s shoulder.
“Hey,” he whines. “Is that any way to treat your zest friend?”
“That does it,” I grit out. “I’ll talk.”
He grins like a maniac. “I zest my case.”
Honey smacks his shoulder. “Make another citrus joke, and you’re getting a serious punch.”
He rubs the spot. “Hit me again, and you’ll make a bitter rival.”
“Hello!” I say so loudly some of the people nearby look at me askance. Lowering my voice, I say, “I said I’ll share.”
They both look at me expectantly.
I furtively scan my surroundings. The last thing I want is for some nosy commuter to overhear this.
Okay. I’m safe. I open my mouth to start talking when an announcement to board the ferry comes on.
“I have to board,” I say. “Talk to you guys later?”
“Don’t you dare hang up,” Fabio yells. “Else your new nickname will be Tart!”
I get up and hurry onto the ferry without hanging up, ignoring Fabio’s ongoing commentary about this conversation being “fruitless” and how I’m just a “yellow” coward. Thankfully, there aren’t a lot of people on the ferry with me, so I’m able to find a secluded spot.
“Okay,” I say into the camera. “Here goes.”
Reluctantly, I tell them how the operation started, skipping the part about my dead phone because Honey would get upset that I didn’t try the rice trick and that I got a new phone before Black Friday (and without a rebate). I explain how I broke into The Russian’s changing room, only to find the tights missing.
“No tights?” Fabio exclaims. “That was my favorite part of the plan.”
I avoid looking into the camera. “No tights, but there was a dance belt—which is something he wears under the tights. It’s like a thong.”
