Page 64 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

“I certainly do,” I say, shifting the pack.

She gazes out the window. “When you live in the same building, you can walk down the hall and have a twenty-minute visit with a friend without blowing up your whole day. In rehearsal season, I’m so busy, I’d only see other dancers if I didn’t live there.”

This twist of sadness moves through me thinking about James. Strangely, it helped to talk with her about him.

“You were friends with the gang at Beau Cirque,” I remind her.

A fleeting smile touches her lips. “And you were so over them. You were your own little island with a keep-out sign.”

“Hardly,” I say. “It was the reality that I had in front of me, that’s all.”

I feel her gaze snap in my direction. “You would’ve changed it if you could have? Even with the Beau Cirque dancers? You wanted to be chummier?”

“Well, I would’ve settled for not making them nervous. I didn’t want to have resting annoyed face.”

She narrows her eyes. “You mean, like resting bitch face, except you looked annoyed?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re telling me you weren’t annoyed all that time?”

“Notallthat time,” I say.

A smile touches the corners of her lips. “I don’t know, Benny,” she says. “I think you were annoyed some of that time.”

“Fine. Some of the time. I’d say it was only fifty percent of the time that I was annoyed. The rest of the time I onlylookedannoyed.”

She’s just laughing now. Only Francine would laugh about this. “I don’t know if that helps your case!”

“What?” I protest.

“Annoyed only half the time. Please, folks, don’t get the wrong idea. Benny’s only annoyed about half the time, lest you think he’s annoyed all the time.”

“There are a lot of annoying things out there,” I say.

“And vexing,” she adds.

“Many people are far more easily vexed and annoyed than I am.” I form the pack over the part that is the traditional pain point, pressing gently.

“That feels good,” she says.

This puffs me up ridiculously. But lest things go too well, the Dave Matthews Band comes on.

The Dave Matthews Band does not feel good. It feels like nails, in fact, scratching on a chalkboard. I stare longingly at my phone, just out of my reach on the side table. What the hell! Why does that keep happening? If only the phone were nearer, I’d zap that song to high heaven.

She’s staring at me, wide-eyed.

“Sorry, I hate that band,” I say.

“It’s okay if you want to get up and change it. I would totally understand.”

“That’s okay, I’ll pour bleach in my ears later,” I say.

“You’re not gonna change it?”

“This is a very delicate procedure with your knee here,” I say.

The way she looks at me, it’s like I turned into Mother Teresa or something, just because I don’t want to leave my post of knee-pack holding, even though turning off the most hated music on the planet could only be helpful. She may not hate the Dave Matthews Band the way I do, but it has to be doing something destructive to her on a quantum level.

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