Page 2 of That Friendzone Feeling
Herusually perfectly applied makeup is smudged at thecorners of both eyes, which are underlined by darker-than-usual circles.Ibet she barely slept last night.
“Lookat all this skin that was under there.”Herfingers glide over my cheeks and jawline. “Andit’s so smooth,” she says, as if she expected it to be more like sandpaper.
I’vebeen going back and forth for months as to whether to lose the beard.Ifit’s making her smile when she’s obviously upset, thenImade the right decision.Andthe chin groping doesn’t exactly suck, either.
“Iguess it’s all baby soft because it’s been protected from the harsh elements by that giant bushy thing,” she says.
Shelets go of me and flips her long dark hair, styled into glossy waves, over one shoulder. “Howdoes it feel?”
“Cold.Itfeels cold.”
“Whenis it ever warm onNewYear’sEveinNewYorkCity?”Shepicks up her drink.
“That’sa white chocolate mocha.Butthey only hadsugar-freevanilla,”Isay, and she drops her mouth open in exaggerated horror. “Gotyou a shot of butterscotch instead.Andthe guy drizzled some caramel on top of the whipped cream, in case it still wasn’t sweet enough for you.”
Shetakes a slurp and gives it a nod of approval. “Hmm.Nicework.”
Ipull a face. “Myteeth are rotting just from the smell of it.”Imove to my own desk and grab my untainted black coffee. “Ifthe people you do our multimillion-dollar deals with knew you had the palate and musical tastes of a thirteen-year-old, they’d never take you seriously again.”
Shepushes a wire basket full of paperwork to one side and perches on the corner of her desk, her dress riding up and doing that thigh-flashing thing again.
“I’dstill kick their asses,” she says over the rim of her cup.
“Oh,Idon’t doubt that.”
AndIdon’t.Notfor a second.
Imight have the skills to brew the finest beer this side of theRockies—actually, both sides of theRockies—but withoutEmily, it would never have gotten out of my college apartment.Icertainly wouldn’t be sitting here, eight years after grad school, on a growing chain of the coolest craft brewpubs in the country, with a one-of-a-kind brewery resort under construction offCapeCod.
“Speakingof which,” she says, “Marcus’snext installment was due this week, and we haven’t received it.”MarcusSt.Clairis the multibillionaire investor whose backing makes the resort possible. “I’vebeen trying to get hold of him all week.Hehasn’t replied to voicemails, emails or texts.”
“It’sthe holidays.Noone replies to anything.”Itake a drink of the hot, earthy,Nicaraguannectar that will help me get through this long night at the party. “I’msure he’ll get back to you next week.”
“Yeah.Probably.It’sjust thatHarry’sbeen chasing me for cash so he can order all the siding and get the drywallers in.”Harry’sthe project manager on the construction site.
“Harryneeds to enjoy his vacation,”Itell her. “Hesaid just a couple of weeks ago that everything’s perfectly on course for the summer opening, so everything’s fine.”
“Maybe.It’sout of character forMarcus, though.”Ascrewed-up tissueIhadn’t realized she was hiding in her hand, drops to the floor. “Anyway, what have you been up to today?”Shepicks up the tissue. “Iimagine bushwhacking your way through your chin was a big job, but it couldn’t have taken the whole day.”
“Research.Ihad an inspired idea to make a special beer to coincide with the resort opening.Madewith an ingredient specific to theCapeCod-ish area.”
ButifI’dhad any idea how upset she is,Iwould never have hunkered down at home all day looking into it.
“Whatingredient’s that?”
“Noidea yet.Butit will be spec-fucking-tacular.”
Iput my feet up on my desk. “Anyway.Goingto tell me about that?”Ipoint at the pile of all her worldly goods.
Sheshrugs like it’s nothing, as though her eyes aren’t really screaming that they’ve been crying for most of the day. “I’mmoving out.”
“Imight not beSherlockHolmes, butIdid pick up on that.”
Shetakes another sip of her tooth enamel-stripping drink. “Ican’t believe how different you look without the beard.It’lltake some getting used to.Whatmade you suddenly do that without even mentioning it?”
Let’snot get into that right now.Orpossibly ever. “Don’tchange the subject.Whathappened?Thoughtyou guys made up after yourChristmasfight.”
EmilyandTheAsshole—whose actual name isAnthonypronounced with athsound, he was always very clear about that—had a big argument onChristmasEve.
