CHAPTER FOUR
A soggy Cheerio falls from my spoon and lands perfectly in the middle of a giant heart on my Dragons Reborn inspired leggings. I doubt Finn, or the company that now owns his popular video game, gave them permission to make leggings based on his characters, but the dragons flying around the pixelated hearts were too good to pass up. Drew calls them my crazy cat lady pants because rather than grow old with one hundred cats he thinks I’ll be the little old lady playing online video games in my nursing home.
Sounds like a good plan to me.
The man in question lumbers down the stairs like an elephant that saw a mouse. Framed pictures on the wall shake as he turns into the kitchen. His footsteps slow long enough to grab a granola bar from the box he continuously leaves on the counter. He exits from the other side of the kitchen, and we both throw up a hand in a silent wave as he passes me and heads for the front door.
“Later!” he yells on his way out.
I don’t bother yelling back as the front door slams shut, the pictures rattling again. Over the years, this has become our summer ritual when my working hours better line up with his. Drew didn’t have the grades to get scholarships out of high school (like me). Aging out of the foster care program pretty much guarantees you don’t have a wealthy benefactor to pay your tuition. While I was attending classes in the city, Drew was working his way up the corporate ladder. He is now assisting day manager for a large local construction firm.
I’m not sure when we stopped being the rebellious kids who snuck cigarettes behind Mrs. Haverbush’s garden shed and became these responsible adults, but I like it. This adult business isn’t half as much fun as we thought it would be, but it has its moments.
A knock on the heavy wood of the front door startles me, and I dribble the milk I’d been drinking from the bowl down my shirt. Mother F’er. At least I hadn’t gotten dressed for the day yet. Drew would never let me live it down if I wore the dragon leggings to work. No one else would either.
With another silent curse I stand, wiping spilled milk into my shirt. On the other side of the door is a man in a brown uniform holding a ridiculously large vase of red roses. I consider letting him leave them on the porch, but curiosity wins over my distaste for answering the door.
“You probably have the wrong house.” My eyes flicker back and forth between the roses and the delivery guy.
His head drops to the pad in his hands, not accustomed to my unexcited reaction. “I’m looking for Clare Cunningham. You her?”
My eyes narrow and my forehead pinches together in suspicion. “Who are they from?”
The guy studies his clipboard again. “Paperwork says the name on the credit card was a Grant Moore.”
I was afraid of that. “Can you send them back?”
He looks at me as if I have a snake coming out of my ear. “You want me to send back three hundred dollars in roses?”
“Don’t tell me the price!” I wave my hands frantically in front of me to stop him from saying more.
“Listen, lady, do you want the flowers or not?”
I sigh in defeat. “Fine.” With one hand I sign for the delivery and hold the heavy vase in my other hand irritated. With the delivery taken care of, I leave the roses on the table next to my empty bowl of cereal and grab my phone heading upstairs.
CLARE: Flower delivery is not included in our friendship contract.
I’d tried to refuse taking Grant’s phone number last night, but now I’m glad he programmed it in my phone.
I send the quick text to Grant and toss the phone on my bed not expecting an immediate response. In what is his ongoing theme, the man surprises me by sending a return text right away.
GRANT: Are we discussing contracts now? I love a good negotiation early in the morning.
I hurry to throw on a pair of jeans and a grey hoodie with the center’s logo across the front. The flower delivery set me back on a tight morning schedule.
CLARE: Plus red roses, really? How unoriginal.
Getting dressed distracted me from the purpose of my text — to ensure Grant lays off the flower deliveries.
CLARE: Seriously, Grant, friends only. You promised.
His reply comes as I’m locking the front door.
GRANT: Okay, I get the point. No more red roses.
Aghhh. Why is he so frustrating?
CLARE: NO flowers! Friends don’t send flowers.
