Page 88 of Champagne Fizz

“Hey, I’m fine,” I say, trying to shake off this confusing feeling in my chest. “Truly Simon, this was really, really swell.”

He laughs at the mention of the word that we’ve now re-defined as mind-blowing phone sex.

“If you were anyone else,” Simon says cautiously, “I’d think you were blowing me off.”

“Goodnight, Simon.”

“Areyou blowing me off?”

“No!” I laugh. “I’m just not good at post phone-sex etiquette. Or post-anything etiquette. My previous experience revolves around exiting a bathroom and pretending I have IBS. It usually does the trick. Kills the mood. Not that I’m trying to kill the mood, I just—”

“You’re perfect, Kendall,” Simon says sweetly.

“Perfect is a standard I’ll never live up to.”

“Well, you’ve blown every standard I’ve had out of the water.”

“And that’s good?”

“You have no clue how addictive you are.”

“Yellow suit and all?”

Simon laughs. “Surprisingly.”

There’s a pause where I can hear him breathing, and it feels like he wants to say more. But instead he says, “Goodnight, Kendall,” and I let that be all that needs to be said. I’m not ready for conversations where we make declarations. I’ll settle for simultaneous orgasms, even if we weren’t naked and touching each other. Even if it feels like so much more.

23

SIMON

“Ineed you to deliver these for me.” A stack of papers slaps down on my desk delivered by the hand of one bristling, red dragoness.

“Um, good afternoon, Simon,” I mock say, as I look up at Arie hovering over me and wearing something vintage that shows off too much cleavage. “How are you, Simon? It’s so nice to see you, Simon. How was your week? Your grandfather? Did you catch the last episode of The Bachelorette—”

“I don’t watch television,” Arie says with a red-lipped frown.

“That was hypothetical.”

“You want pleasantries and foreplay, Simon?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest as she emphasizes my name. “Do you need me to rub you a little over your pants to warm you up?”

“According to some sources,” I chide, “at one point in time we were actually friends.” I peek at the stack she’s dropped on my table. It looks like the wedding menu and information about the cake. “Remember when we actually spent time together, Arie? Hung out? Asked each other about our lives? Shared our feelings?”

“I’m surprised you think I have feelings,” Arie retorts. “Do you need to cry on my shoulder?”

“When did I get demoted to your delivery boy?” I push the papers back at her.

“When you decided you wanted to play liaison for your colorful friend, whom those are for.” Arie motions to the papers with a pointed glare. “The two of you have been spending an alarming amount of time together, by the way.”

I look at Arie and don’t reply. Kendall and I have hung out a little bit—a picnic lunch, a beachside stroll, a few orgasmic make-out sessions tucked in here and there. They’re definitely helping her feel more comfortable. Me, on the other hand, I’m loving every second of it, I’m just a little pent up, and that’s probably what Arie’s keying in on.

“Miss Canary Pom-Pom,” Arie presses when I don’t take her bait.

“Please don’t call her that.”

“Kendall,” Arie says, emphasizing her name like she should get a gold star for the effort.

“Is that what you’re pissed about?” I ask. “That I’ve been hanging out with another woman that’s not you?”

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