I turned down the next aisle with a newfound smugness. She wasn’t there. Distracted, I forgot to grab the cereal I wanted. I turned down the next aisle. Again no Lior to see how unbothered I was that she was at the same store. I quickened my step, hurrying past the peanut butter on my list. Two more aisles and I’d now basically forgotten I was there to buy food and was angry at myself for wondering if she’d left.
One more aisle with no sign of her and I assumed she’d gone. Irritated with myself for having to now backtrack to grab all the things I’d passed, I spun my cart around and nearly collided with her’s.
“Shit,” I said.
“Again?” she asked, lifting her foot and looking at the bottom of her shoe. When those eyes of hers met mine again, she was pursing her lips as if trying to stop from smiling.
She was quick, I’d give her that.
“Well,” I said. “So much for my valiant efforts to avoid you.”
And so much for showing her how unbothered I was.
“I thought if I waited it out in the bakery department long enough, you’d surely be gone by now.” She glanced down at her cart. “Instead, you’re still here and I apparently have no self-control.”
I looked into her cart now too and couldn’t help myself. I grinned at the three packages of different flavored donut holes sitting in the basket of her cart alongside one small bunch of bananas and a bag of pasta. Seems she too might have been a little distracted. I wanted to say something funny, but the image I’d seen of her and Alex Clarke this morning flashed in my mind and I was instantly no longer amused. My smile disappeared.
“Can we call a ceasefire while we’re here?” I asked, all business now. “I’ve missed half the things on my list and I’m starving.”
“Same,” she said, and then lifted her hand, made a finger-gun, and holstered it. With a little grin she turned and walked away while I tried and failed not to check out her ass, remembering that red thong from the picture online.
“Get it together, man,” I whispered to myself, and then headed down the aisle in search of cereal.
Chapter 10
Lior
“I’m getting too old for this,” I said to my friend Lane, as we sipped glasses of Prosecco at the bar and watched her girlfriend Greta try to twerk on the dance floor surrounded by a dozen of her closest friends.
“Dear god,” Lane said, covering her eyes as she laughed. Greta had zero rhythm. “Make it stop.”
Lane worked in the upper echelons of Dior. We’d met years ago and became instant friends due to her naughty humor and infectious laugh. When I’d gotten the invitation in the mail for Greta’s birthday, to be held at a popular nightclub they were renting out, I’d immediately texted, “Whyyyyyy?”
Followed, of course, by a yes.
“She’s turning thirty,” Lane had explained when she’d called rather than texted back. “And thought it would be fun to see her twenties out in the same way she saw them in. At least, I hope that’s all this is, and not a cry for help or an early mid-life crisis.”
There were at least a hundred people in attendance. They included a handful of Lane’s friends from the industry, and then ninety of Greta’s closest pals.
I recognized several people from gatherings at Lane and Greta’s house over the years, but most were strangers who were trying and failing not to stare at me, and so I’d found a safe spot at the far end of the bar and wasn’t surprised at all when Lane joined me. While she was happy to do whatever Greta wanted, clubs had never been her scene.
“Is it over yet?” she asked. “I swear I’ve already lost ten percent of my hearing and three brain cells just by being here.”
“I mean, one might argue you lost those brain cells when you agreed to this party.”
“How could I deny her? Look how happy she is!”
I looked to the dance floor again where Greta was now bouncing up-and-down, her bobbed black hair swinging just slightly off-beat, a huge smile on her face.
“Is she drunk or high?” I asked.
“A little of both,” Lane said. “Maybe that’s what I need to get through this.”
“Stick to the alcohol,” I said. “Or you won’t want to get out of bed tomorrow.”
“You’d think it would get easier with age. Like we’ve trained for it or something. Why does it get harder?”
“That is the cruel twist of fate, my friend. At least you look amazing.”
