Page 76 of Boyfriend
I fight off a shiver. Margie and I sat elbow to elbow the other day, working on VT’s Instagram account. “So you want me to just dive in?”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” he says. “Alexis left you some photographs of the spring line in your cloud folder. She loved what you and Margie made last week.”
I sit down at the computer and open up the graphics software I’d asked Taft to subscribe to when I began my internship. And I start pulling in the new photos.
Alexis did a good job with the shots. They’re well lit on pale-colored wood backgrounds. Very springy. So I begin experimenting with lighthearted graphic embellishments to try to produce a string of posts for a week’s worth of content.
I’m a little tired, though, so I don’t even notice Alexis behind me until she claps her hands together and startles me so badly the computer mouse flies off the edge of the desk.
“Oh my word!” Alexis hoots. “I apologize.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, clamping a hand over my suddenly pounding heart. “I just didn’t hear you.”
“That’s good work, Abbi.” She pulls out a chair and sits beside me. “I really like your content. It’s so fresh.”
“Thanks. I didn’t use the photo of the slippers, though.” I flip the screen to show her the picture that I mean. “The colors don’t really pop here, and I didn’t want to make the product look murky.”
“It is murky,” Alexis grumbles. “Those are stodgy, and no photo filter could fix it. All our slippers have that elderly look.” She wrinkles up her cute nose.
“Tell us how you really feel,” her father says from across the room.
“Dad, you know I’m right. We need some new looks.”
“Felted wool slippers are in,” I point out. “I think they’d fit the vibe without being too edgy.”
Alexis blinks. “I was just thinking about those, too.”
“Yeah?” I tap the computer screen, where I’ve got a photo of a plaid blanket enlarged. “I can see them paired with patterns like this.”
“Good eye, Abbi,” she says thoughtfully. “Tell me this—would a Gen Z kid wear felted wool slippers?”
“This one would,” I say with a shrug.
“Interesting.” She taps her lip. “Interesting.”
Twenty-Seven
A Lovers’ Quarrel Without Lovers
Weston
Abbi is late for dinner.
She texted to say she was running late, so it’s all good. But I find myself bouncing in my chair at the pizza place, watching the door for her.
Sometimes a guy just gets hyper. And tonight's my night. There's a lot riding on these two games against Merrimack. They’re the only league team left that we haven’t played. We’ll play them back to back, two nights in a row. And if we were to lose both games, our playoffs spot is endangered.
So we can't let that happen.
Obviously.
Furthermore, my dad and my siblings finally drove up for a game. Not to mention Abbi’s appearance—her first game of the season. This is why I'm practically levitating in my chair, waiting for Abbi to walk through that door.
“Maybe she's with her real boyfriend.” Stevie snickers.
“Oh shut it,” I grumble. The idea of Abbi finding a real boyfriend irritates me so much. It shouldn’t. But it does.
I can't stop glancing at the door. Every time someone comes through it, I stare. “She's just running a few minutes late,” I insist, because it's true. “We’re supposed to go ahead and order. She'll eat anything, but she picks off mushrooms.”
