Page 18 of Is This for Real?
“Your blog is just the tip of the iceberg, although as you yourself have said, you got more followers when you revealed real emotion about rejection.”
“I think he’s pretty familiar already with the messy side of me,” I say. “He just sees me as a friend.”
“Let’s just see if there’s that flare of attraction when his eyes check out your legs or your...”
“Okay, okay. I got it. Mission accepted,” I say. “But I know we’ve already moved past any possibility of dating. I think there’s a window at the beginning when you first become friends with a guy, and one of you then makes the decision whether this will be friends or more.” I should have remembered that before I told Jamie I loved him.
“Ah, but you defined it as a window. And windows can be opened.”
Sometimes I hate that my best friend is a lawyer.
“Pretend you’re a character in one of your books who wants to seduce the guy. It’s great research for your book.” Zelda grabs her iPhone and plays “You and Me” by Cassie. “Let’s dance!”
Zelda is a big believer in the pre-party dance session—and the pick-me-up dance boogie, and the I’m-over-you groove. The music fills my veins and I shimmy.
“He’s not going to know what hit him,” she says, a wicked grin on her face. “If you need any on-the-spot advice, text me. Miranda and I are going to a dance party in Brooklyn.” Miranda is our upstairs neighbor.
I pat Gilda and Benson on their heads before I leave. Some dog hair sprinkles on my outfit as a good luck charm. I grab my bike helmet from its hook and step out the door.
I unlock a Citi Bike and ride down the Columbus Avenue bike lane toward Tribeca. I’m flashing a lot of leg. No one seems to notice. That’s not exactly a boost of confidence before my date.
I slow down because I don’t want to arrive all sweaty. I park in my usual Citi Bike rack, then I stand with my arms outstretched, trying to air out my arms. I forgot about sweat stains. I should’ve taken the subway. And that’s another reason why I don’t date. I’ve biked here a million times before and just bounced right up to Rory’s apartment, not caring about whether I’m a sweaty mess.
“Penelope?”
It can’t be. I rotate my arms in slow circles. I turn around. “Rory.”
He looks perplexed. As he should. He’s carrying flowers. Bright-yellow tulips.
“What are you doing?”
“Arm circles.” I look away at my outstretched hand. “I like to work my back and arms after biking so that it’s not all legs.”
He smiles. “Aren’t you supposed to be moving your arms in circles when doing arm circles?” He’s onto me. It’s a problem when you’re trying to fool one of your best friends.
“I like to warm up to it first by just extending my arms.”
He nods seriously, but he half-smiles.
Then he crosses over and hands me bright-yellow tulips. “For you.”
I say thanks and kiss him on the cheek. I wonder if he knows that yellow tulips used to mean “hopeless love.”
We stand there. I sniff the flowers. He pulls me close to him, his arm around me, his hand curling around my waist.
“So, I’m all for practice,” he says. As my body fits against his and we amble toward his brownstone, I realize I’m committed to this charade now.
We walk up the stairs to his apartment on the top floor. He’s dressed up as well. He’s wearing an ironed, white, button-down shirt, untucked, and jeans. Sexy.
I smell smoke. “Something’s burning.”
The smell is getting stronger the closer we get to his apartment. “Fire. Fire,” a robotic voice intones. And a fire alarm is beeping.
“Aargh. I hope I didn’t forget to turn it off.” Rory bounds up the stairs ahead of me. I follow closely behind.
We burst into the apartment. Smoke is rolling out from the kitchen. Flames leap from the pot on the stove. He grabs the fire extinguisher from the wall and sprays it at the pot, putting out the fire. White spray gook covers the kitchen.
Rory puts down the fire extinguisher. He looks upset.
