While the content was more high-end, and the aesthetic classier, sweeter, and more authentic, to me it sort of read the same as the other two women. Drama. It was all drama. Lior’s life was filled with it by the very nature of her job. Travel, celebrity, money… Drama was the name of that game, and no matter how many pictures she posted doing “normal people” things, she would never be “normal”. She would never not be followed and photographed. Her stained scarf would always have a tag that read Burberry or Dior. And her broken heel would always come from a Jimmy Choo or a Manolo.
My mind went to the decades-old, worn-in sneaker I’d taken from her porch this morning. That certainly hadn’t felt contrived in any way. Maybe she did have a little bit of “normal” in her life after all?
“Oh, fuck off,” I told myself, shutting my laptop in disgust. “Don’t give her another thought. The last thing you need is any sort of drama, created or otherwise. Or a woman to be obsessing over. We are all about work now, right girl?”
I reached down to give Brontë some scratches behind the ears, then went upstairs to my home gym to work out the frustrations I was clearly in denial about.
The following morning, Brontë’s leash in one hand, Lior’s now-clean sneaker in the other, we exited the house and began what was now becoming our new familiar walk. At the corner we paused to let a group of school kids dressed in uniforms go by, and a few blocks later we stood aside to allow two harried-looking women leading a dozen or so preschoolers across the street to a small playground. I grinned as one of the kids shot me a slobbery smile and then continued on my way, ignoring the confused looks I got when people noticed the shoe in my hand.
As we approached Lior’s home, I paused, causing Brontë to look back at me with a question in her big brown eyes as the leash tightened.
“Sorry, girl,” I said, nervous suddenly as I realized I had no idea when Lior was returning. She could’ve flown in last night and was in her house now. What if she saw me? What if she was irritated I’d been there and taken her shoe?
“Jesus, grow up, Graham,” I told myself.
Taking a breath, I resumed walking, Brontë shuffling along beside me until she seemed to realize where she was and picked up speed, her head directed towards the stoop leading to Lior’s door.
We climbed the steps and I set the shoe back in the corner where Brontë had found it, putting a new note inside and then heading back home.
Chapter 12
Lior
I woke to the sound of a crash and sprinted out of the guest room bed wearing nothing but a tank top and the underwear Addie had gotten me for Christmas with beavers all over them.
“Addie?” I shouted as I hurried down the hall, looking in doorways as I went, my bare feet slapping against the hardwoods.
“I’m fine!” she yelled.
I entered the kitchen to a cloud of flour and my best friend smiling with the one side of her face that wasn’t broken, stitched, and bruised.
“What happened?” I asked, standing just outside the doorway in hopes of avoiding looking like she did. “Are you trying to impersonate a powdered donut? Cuz you know I get all hot and bothered for a donut.”
“This is me surprising with you pancakes.” She reached her arms out to her sides and waved her hands, kicking up another cloud. “Surprise!”
“Fool. You can’t cook. You must’ve hit your head harder than we thought.”
She glanced down at the frying pan on the floor and the spilled bag of flour.
“Wanna go out to eat?” she asked.
“Like we’ve done every morning? Yes. Obviously.”
She opened the French doors to the back deck then and walked out to the yard, giving her hair a gentle shake and dusting off her t-shirt and shorts as best she could before coming back inside.
“Go shower,” I said, pointing in the direction of her room. “I’ll…” I looked around at the flour covered surfaces. “Figure this out.”
I was still wiping down appliances and countertops when she emerged twenty minutes later, her light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail that accentuated her long neck and bruised face – which was now an interesting rainbow of colors. She was dressed in a pair of white jean shorts and a strappy black tank top that did little to conceal more bruised skin on her shoulder, clavicle, and arm.
“Lookin’ to turn heads today, eh?” I said.
“I have to find some way to get men to notice me over you.”
“Next time maybe opt for a boob job.”
“That still wouldn’t do it.”
“What if you got double Gs?”
