Page 66 of The Plus Ones

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“We did. You had a dinner thing that you couldn’t get out of. Anyway—when we came home, she was fast asleep, and he was covered in glitter and face paint, and he was wearing a construction paper crown that she’d made him and she made him promise he wouldn’t take it off even when she was asleep.”

“What did she paint on his face?” Aimee asks, thank God, because I’m dying to know.

“A butterfly. He let her paint a pink and blue butterfly on his face. We took a picture of him like that, and she has it up in her room—oooh, it’s on my phone. I’ll show you! And before you ask, Roxy—yes, she also has a picture of you from that time we had a picnic.” Bernadette starts to frantically scroll through images on her phone.

“Thank you, but I do not need to see the picture.”

“Well, I want to see it,” Aimee says.

“You know what you should do?” Bernadette says, waving her phone at me. “You should tryconverge-satingwith him.”

“I don’t know what that is, but I’m not doing that. Okay, I’m gonna go.”

“We don’t want to scare her,” Aimee says to Bernadette. “We aren’t pressuring you, girl. Just chill.”

“I’m chill. I just…this isn’t the kind of thing I can rush into. All right? This could be…a big deal.”

“The biggest!” Aimee raises her hands in the air again.

“Okay, I’m leaving.”

“But no pressure.”

“But wait!” Bernadette grabs my arm. “What you just said—that’s the thing. You’ve been resisting Keaton and holding on to this idea of him being an ass for so long because deep down, youknowhow life-changing it would be to give in to all that energy between you. There’s so much of it, Roxy, I could paint it. In fact, I probably will. My next series of paintings just might be about you and Keaton.”

“I think that might count as pressure,” Aimee stage whispers to her.

I can’t even process what she just said. “Okay, good night!”

“Roxton foreva!” Bernadette calls out as I’m opening the door to the hallway.

“Shhh!” I shut the door again. “Let me get my head aroundRoxtonfor nowfirst. I mean, I don’t even know where he’s at yet.”

I look at Aimee, who is smiling down at the floor and trying to hide her face with her hair like a lunatic. “Also, to be clear,” she says to Bernadette, “Chase can’t know. I mean, not until they’re officially, you know. Together. Because we don’t even know if Keaton’s really interested.” She smacks her lips together and looks to the side.

I get up in her sweet face until she has to look me in the eyes. “Did he talk to you or something?”

She covers her mouth. “Did who talk to me?”

“Girl. Do not make me slap you.”

15

Keaton

By the time Roxy gets back to the Hibiscus Cottage, I’m already in bed, shirtless and looking at photos of Jackpot on my phone. He played outside in the snow today. Most likely took a dump for the good people of the doggy hotel in the snow too. Good for him. He’s probably enjoying my vacation more than I am. I know for sure that he’s going to enjoy the rest of this night more than I will.

I made a decision earlier tonight, that I will wait for Roxy to make the next move. No matter how long I have to wait, no matter how painful it will be to stay on my side of the bed. I’ll let her think that I’m not capable of thinking like her, but I know this is what she needs. My M.O. in the past has been to come on strong with the women I want, but this woman is more strong-willed than most. I have definitely met my match, and I just need to be patient and wait for her to realize that she’s met hers.

It has probably only been fifteen minutes since I got here, but it feels like I’ve been waiting for her to return from the lobby forever. There’s an Inuit word—iktsuarpok. It’s that anticipation and frustration you feel when you’re waiting for someone to come over and you keep going outside to check for them. That’s how I’ve been feeling for the past fifteen minutes. That’s how I’m feeling all the time now, when it comes to Roxy Carter. I’m just waiting for her to show up for me, and I know that she will be worth the wait.

She shuts the door so quietly, as if she expects me to be asleep and doesn’t want to wake me. She kicks off her sandals and tiptoes around, even when she sees that I’m sitting up. She doesn’t make eye contact with me when she pulls a T-shirt out from her suitcase and then makes her way over to the bathroom.

Oh for fuck’s sake—now what?

I turn off the bedside lamp, punch the pillow, and slam my head down into it, turning my back to the bathroom door. This woman confounds me and I love-hate it. I try to will myself to fall asleep before she gets into bed, which is impossible. I’m too aware of the sound of her moving behind the door. She isn’t slamming anything—she isn’t mad. She’s carefully placing each of her many products back on the marble counter instead of tossing things around—she’s being considerate. She’s changing her behavior for me, or at least because of me. She’s probably taking her birth control pill, which I just happened to see in her cosmetics bag. She’s also taking her sweet fucking time in there, so she’s either dreading getting into bed with me or she’s figuring out a game plan.

Or maybe she’s doing that ten-step Korean skincare thing that Tamara tried for about a week.