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“But you don’t know anything about staging a house to sell,” Presley says. “Do you?”
“Nope.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Google exists,” I say, walking past her to rifle through my dresser, hoping to find something else to wear, knowing that I have nothing because I just wore my best outfit to the interview.
Maybe I could wear the pencil skirt again but with different shoes, and a sweater instead of the blazer? No, that won’t work.
“What are you looking for? Your leggings and tee shirts are right there on the bed.”
“You didn’t have to fold them for me!” I say.
Presley shrugs. “Well Toby was in the laundry room being a creep and he makes me nervous so I stood there and folded my things while he rambled on aboutRed Dead Redemption.”
“Cool game.”
“Grace.”
“I know, I know. If Toby’s such a creep, why didn’t you just grab my shit and go upstairs?”
Presley shifts around strangely, her arms crossed over her chest as she stands between the two narrow arched windows, the only natural light source in this single-room apartment. “There was…someone waiting for me on the outside landing that I really didn’t want to see.”
“Who?” I turn from my dresser and narrow my eyes at her.
“Uh…an ex. Not a big deal, just awkward, you know?”
I shake my head. “Toby needs to get a code lock for the outside door.”
Presley stares into space and nods her head. “Yeah.”
“Pres, do you happen to have anything cute I can borrow? Cute, bordering on professional. Or vice versa?”
This gets her attention. “Why, you got a date?” Her wide brown eyes are finally distracted from whatever is bothering her.
“I wish. No, I’m meeting with my boss tonight to review plans.”
Presley bursts out laughing. “Already? On a Friday night? No, it’s a date.”
I bite my lip and shake my head. “I’m not sure about that.”
“What time is this meeting?” Presley says the word “meeting” like it’s a euphemism for group sex.
“Uh, at 7 p.m.?” And I see how this looks like a date.
“Where are you meeting him?”
“At Other Brother Ben’s.”
“Oh my god! That is a date!”
I sigh heavily. “And there’s one other thing. Buck’s not meeting me there. He’s picking me up here.”
Presley stops and stares at me like I’m too stupid to live. “I cannot with you. Come on.”
Presley seizes me by the wrist and drags me out my door. Curiously, she stops short in the hallway to make sure the coast is clear, evidently still worried about running into someone she doesn’t want to see.
Seconds later we’re standing in front of her closet, which has spilled over into half a dozen wheeled racks in the main room, every rod organized by item and color. The girl is a clothes horse.
