Page 65 of A Very Friendly Valentine's Day
The One Where Eddie Finds Out
I’m the youngest in my family, but I never wanted to be treated like the baby brother. I’ve always been trying to prove myself to people, it seems. About being a responsible adult. About not being a player. About being more than just a pretty face with abs. About not being attracted to my female best friend. I’m done with that last one. And I think that this shift in the way I feel about Birdie proves the first three points.
It’s not that I feel like I have to prove myself to Birdie now. I just want to show her that we won’t lose what we have if we add in the other stuff. And I’m going to give her some good old-fashioned valentines in a hot new-fashioned way. I’m gonna woo the fuck out of that woman.
The train ended up getting to Chicago an hour and a half late. Could have been worse, as Gavin kept assuring us, but it gives us less time until we have to board the train to New York. I checked us into the downtown Marriott, took a quick shower, ordered a bottle of champagne from room service just to be baller, and then let Birdie do her thing while I went out to run an errand. I had to find a store that sells burner phones, for a little project that I need to get started on ASAP. I can’t rewrite our history, but I can share some key moments that have been left out of my telling of our story so far.
I’ve been in the hotel lobby, setting something up, but I really need to go buy a winter coat because it’s so fucking cold out there. I also want to spend a little time warming up in that luxury hotel room with Birdie, although I won’t be doing it in the way that I’d like to.
I never did kiss her again after breakfast today. After last night, I’m wondering how I managed to resist kissing her for six years, because resisting it for six hours feels like torture now. But I’ll do it. I’ve made it a goal to wait until she’s ready, no matter how long it takes.
But I will do whatever it takes to not wait very long.
When I enter the hotel room, it’s empty. The door to the bathroom is closed. I don’t hear the shower running in there, but I can feel the steam.
“I’m back,” I call out as I remove my jacket. “You here?” It is alarming, how much I like saying that.Honey, I’m home.
“Oh hey! Taking a bath. I showered too. It’s so nice in here! Be right out.” She sounds relaxed. And naked. And wet.
But I’m not going to think about that right now.
The champagne bottle is uncorked, sitting in the wine cooler. There’s one unused champagne glass on the table, which means Birdie is probably enjoying a glass of champagne in the tub. I like that. I grab the bottle and drink from it—because no one’s looking and there’s no time to waste.
I place an envelope inside Birdie’s handbag. It’s marked with the wordsFOR BIRDIE BECKETT, FROM YOUR SECRET VALENTINE.All caps, carefully written in an unfamiliar way.
And then I just happen to notice that Birdie’s phone is charging right next to it on the desk…and when I touch the home button, I just happen to notice that it’s unlocked. Which is interesting. And the voicemail app is open on the screen. Which is very interesting. And the only saved message is from me, dated December 29th. Which is fascinating.
And I know there are rules about not listening to other people’s saved voicemails.
But they’re really more guidelines, if you were the one who left the voicemail when you were drunk.
As Birdie herself has demonstrated over the past couple of days—guidelines are merely suggestions when it comes to us.
So I put down the champagne bottle, play the voicemail and raise the phone to my ear.
I barely even recognize the sound of my recorded voice. It’s always weird, watching myself on screen. Whether I’m acting or it’s an interview. But this is beyond weird. I’m not the guy who leaves drunk voicemails. I’m the guy who leaves cool voicemails. I’m the guy who leaves funny voicemails. Sometimes I’m the guy who leaves voicemails that are hot as fuck. But this guy…this guy is vulnerable. Definitely hammered. Very confused. And he’s a fool. A fool in love.
I know for a fact that I’ve never been like this with anyone else.
“I know you’re the best girl. I’ve always known it.”What the fuck?
I can’t believe Birdie’s been living with this for a month and a half and didn’t tell me.
Okay, new plan.
I cannot go another month and a half without kissing her.
I tear off my sweater, leaving my T-shirt on, kick off my shoes, and then open that bathroom door. And there she is. Just stepped out of the tub, toweling off her beautiful, relaxed, wet, naked self. As if this view weren’t perfect enough, she’s so startled that she drops the towel. And now she’s a startled, beautiful, wet, totally naked woman who’s getting kissed by a fool. A fool who’s been in love with her forever, probably, without realizing it.
I hold her face in my hands, kissing her mouth. The gasps and sighs and moans echo quietly around the steamy tiled bathroom like a dirty hymn. I will do nothing but sing praises of this woman for the rest of my life.
Her hands are on my chest, gripping my T-shirt. Her tongue tastes like cinnamon toothpaste and champagne and starting over.
When I finally pull my lips away, I rest my forehead against hers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?” she whispers, eyes still closed, swaying a little.
“Why didn't you tell me what I said in that voicemail?”
