Page 163 of Champagne Fizz

“Mmmmmm,” Simon rubs his nose against mine. “A naughty minced oath? Please tell me more about those ones.” I kiss him chastely, and he growls. “I said the naughty ones, Hart.”

“Oh come now, Simon,” I say playfully, nipping at his lower lip, “with me and my condition around, you know that absolutelyanythingcan turn naughty in less than ten seconds.”

“Ten seconds, huh?” Simon replies, pulling back and putting the candelabra in the nearest box. “Challenge accepted.” He starts rifling through the box playfully. “Let’s see if I can make you blush with—” His eyes light up as he finds something in the box he likes.

He sets his sights on me beneath those glasses, and it doesn’t really matter what he pulls out, Lady Lada is already smitten and aching for a pina colada.

48

SIMON

Seagulls squawk in the morning sun, and the smell of salt fills my nostrils as I step out of the elevator onto the rooftop.

It’s hard to mistake the blazing red hair of the person sitting at one of the tables on the Flambé patio. It seems sad to see Arie that way——all alone and staring out at the ocean—and it makes me wonder how long she’s been waiting.

A few strands of eucalyptus from the wedding still hang from the string lights, swaying in the morning breeze like white flags of surrender after a long battle. It makes my heart soften. How strong is our friendship if what’s passed will truly pull our friendship apart?

I walk up and sit down opposite her, deliberately saying nothing.

This is her move.

Arie looks awful: no make-up, messy bun, a simple t-shirt and jeans. Same as me, honestly, simple shirt and pants. I expected her to be in a rockabilly outfit with cherries on it as a snide unspoken virgin comment. Instead, she looks like she hasn’t slept. On the table is a big thermos containing her breakfast, which is either a gallon of water for her hangover, or a liter of vodka to get her through this.

I fold my hands on the patio table and wait.

She’s the one who walked out last night. She’s the one who gets to start this conversation.

Arie stares out at the ocean for a long time, until she turns her gaze to me with lips pursed and brow knit. I can’t tell if she doesn’t like the look of me, or she doesn’t like what she’s thinking. Either way, I’m not throwing the first stone.

She takes a long sip of whatever’s in her thermos and the sun starts to beat down on my neck. I keep my poker face on and wait. Too many times have I spoken first and apologized, played the peacemaker. Too often I’ve compromised to avoid a hard conversation.

Not this time.

I swear we sit there in silence for five minutes straight, and if this is the bullshit she wants to play, then I’m really out. I stand up and head for the elevator, but Arie grabs my hand.

“Fuck, sit down, Simon.”

I stand there with her hand on my wrist and don’t move.

“Sit down,” she hisses again, tugging on my arm.

“Apologize,” I say sternly.

“This isn’t easy for me,” she gripes.

I wretch my hand out of her grip and keep walking.

“Dammit, I’m sorry,” she calls after me. “God, Simon!”

“Wow,” I hiss. “It sounds like you really mean that.”

Arie’s on her feet, clomping in three-inch heels after me. At least she couldn’t leave the house without her stilettos. She manages to run in front of me and I let her stop me.

“I’m sorry!” She clips out.

I wait for her to keep talking and when she doesn’t, I shake my head at her.

This is ridiculous.

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