Teeny laughs, giggling behind her hand covering her mouth like a teenage girl talking to her crush. It’s a little embellished, and I suppress an eye roll.
“Anyway, I’ll let you ladies enjoy your lunch,” Noah announces. He turns to me and adds, “I’ll see you back on the floor, Grace.” He does this little salute with his snack-occupied hand, and he does it with a suaveness that’s all slick and natural. Teeny watches him walk away and whips her head to face me with a gaped mouth.
“Who is that?” she asks in a hushed voice. Her hands brace the table as if my workplace drama is going to physically hit her in the face with a satisfying blow.
“I just introduced you. It’s Dr. Noah.”
“No, that man told you to call himNoah. NotDr.Noah. JustNo-uh.” She drags out his name, enunciating it in excess. “Is that who you’ve been boinking?”
“Don’t say ‘boinking.’”
“It’s him though. Right?”
“No. I don’t shit where I eat.”
“Why not? You know forty-three percent of marriages are a result of work-related romances.”
“Why do you know that? That is such a specific statistic.”
“I just do,” she answers before quickly adding, “So?”
“Teeny, I am not in any kind of work-related romance with Dr. Noah?—”
“Noah,” she interjects.
“With Noah,” I correct myself. “It’s just not happening.”
“Why not? He’s really handsome. And he’s a doctor. He’s a hot handsome doctor you work with. The rom-com is writing itself, Grace. I can almost hear Nancy Meyers tapping out her screenplay at her Hampton Beach house.”
“Your imagination is wild.”
“You think Sam Claflin would be available to play Dr. Noah?”
Our laughter echoes off the walls of the small sandwich shop, and that wave of guilt rolls through me once again.
“I had lunch with Teeny today.”
Some garbled sounds muffled by foamy toothpaste come out of Andrew’s mouth. The end of his toothbrush dangles from the corner of his mouth, and he looks at me through the reflection off the medicine cabinet.
“What?”
He spits, rinsing his mouth. “How was it?” Water drips from his chin, and there’s still a white dollop of toothpaste at the corner of his mouth.
“Good,” I answer, handing him the towel I was using to dry my face. “She asked me if I was having sex.”
He uses the unsettled blank look on his face to ask for more information. Probably what the context was that led to the topic of my sex life. He leans his palm against the bathroom sink counter and runs his tongue across his lower lip, a tellthat he’s worried this conversation may shift into a too-much-information territory that involves what we do behind closed doors and his sister.
“What?” he asks.
“Actually, shetoldme I’m having sex. And then she asked me who it was.”
“She can tell you’re having sex?”
“I guess so.”
“Is that a skill most women have?”
“I don’t know.” I face him, my hand landing on the cool surface right next to his. I look at him with narrowed eyes, flicking my gaze up and down, and say, “Yup. You’re definitely having sex.”
