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“I can believe that.”
“Stop it,” she playfully replies. “Now, back to debaucherous.”
“Yes, please do get back to debaucherous.” I know it’s not a word, but I’ll play along for her since she’s so eager to prove me wrong. She’s cute when she gets that tiny, determined line between her eyebrows. Another giveaway on how strong she is as a person. “Okay, the loser buys dinner.”
She stops in the middle of the sidewalk and pulls her phone out, typing in the search box. Listening to her sound out the word is quite adorable. “De-ba-cher-ris.” She puts a hand on her hip, and her lips purse. “Hm!”
“What’d you find?” I ask, peering over her shoulder.
She spins out of my reach and says, “Back away, back away. I didn’t search right. Let me do this again.”
I snicker on the inside. I know she’s not going to find it, but I like her tenacity. I step back and cross my arms in fake annoyance, but I can’t stop smiling as I watch her fingers zip across the screen. “Don’t forget about the u.”
“The u? Where does that go?”
“Well, in debauchery, it goes after the a.”
She types some more as a huge smirk crosses her face before it falls just as fast. Without looking at me, she tosses her phone into her handbag and says, “Come on. Guess I’m buying.”
I’m obnoxious, so I fist pump. I also do a little consoling and a lot of trying to restrain myself from laughing because she apparently is a sore loser. I wonder if that’s a redhead trait, too.
Her eyes roll as she pouts. “Stop it! So it’s not a word. It’s close to a real word.”
“If you want to use debaucherous, I won’t judge.”
“Why do I not believe you? See? I can already see you judging me. It’s in your beady blue eyes.”
“Beady? I’ve been told I have enchanting eyes, soulful even, but never beady, baby.”
That elicits a laugh from her, which makes me laugh, too. “And you’re not conceited at all, are you?”
“Nah, not conceited, just speaking the truth.”
“Ugh, and you’re insufferable, too.”
“Ha!” I smile.
She bumps me with her body to the right. “If you can contain your self-indulgent glee for a while, we can eat. We’re here.” She presents the door like a game show hostess.
“I don’t know if I can contain myself. You might have to help me with that. Teasing—”
“More like taunting.”
“Okay, taunting. Taunting you is so much fun. It’ll be hard to stop.”
“Shush it and come on,” she says, grabbing me by the wrist and dragging me inside.
I’ve never been here. I’ve never even seen this place before. “Should I be worried, Charlie?”
“Nah, it’s the best in the city. The guy is from England. He knows his chish and fips.”
“Don’t you mean fish and chips?”
“Nope. Just go with it.”
I laugh. “You’re killing me with the funnies today. You know that?”
“Yep, I sure do. You should stick around. I’m a real riot.”
“I just bet you are.” Yes, this is turning into quite the beautiful friendship.
Sitting at my desk on Monday, I catch myself staring out the window at the leaves budding on the tree outside. On Sunday, Charlie twirled a leaf between her fingers when we walked through the park. We sat by the pond near The Boathouse Restaurant, watching joggers as they passed by, kids playing tag, and couples strolling hand in hand. I lay back on the grass, staring into the clear blue sky, letting my eyes drift closed, when her head came to rest on my stomach.
I may have stopped breathing for a moment. In actuality, I know I did, but trying to play it cool, I inhaled long and slow until I was breathing normally again. I don’t think she noticed. If she did, she didn’t say anything. Just as I lifted my head to look at her, her arm reached into the serene air and caught a leaf as it floated down from above. Wordlessly, she smiled and admired the new green leaf of spring.
We lay there for a few minutes when she suggested we go for ice cream. It was almost a relief to get out of that position. Her closeness, the intimacy of the moment tugs at my heart, and being a typical guy, it also turned me on. I wanted to touch her, hold her, make her sticky and sweaty again, but that’s not who we are now. So ice cream it was instead.
Back to the blinking cursor on my laptop, I start typing the first words that come to mind and let my fingers tap over the keyboard unrestrained for the next two hours without a break. Somehow, I manage to write my first full chapter to a novel in which I have no clue what the story is. Yet the words flowed like a river, steady and strong. The words “My Everything” stand out to me as I write them, and I’ve found my title.
