If I can get the word out there and book both places with good consistency.
“This is great,” Monica says, peering over my shoulder. “I’m about to throw a lot of bookings your way.”
I rest my head on her shoulder briefly. “You’re the best, you know?”
Her teeth flash behind crimson lips. “I do.”
When I pull up another picture, she gives me a happy kiss on the head. “This is good. But I still think you should keep up with the design ideas.”
I’d been giving her ideas for her beach house, and it’s been an interesting experience. So many times in my life, I’ve felt an antsy kind of urge deep in my belly. The need to create but no outlet for it. I filled it with watching movies, reading books, sketching interiors every once in a while. It never helped.
Working with Monica felt different. All that twitchiness inside eased a little more.
“I’m looking into taking some design courses.”
“That’s great!” She wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “But you’re still helping me with my house, right?”
“Just don’t blame me if you don’t like it, okay?”
“Ha! I’ll just have us start all over again.”
“Pazzo.”
“Loca.”
Laughter erupts but then my phone reminder chimes.
“The game.” I set aside the laptop and grab the remote.
“You have it scheduled on your phone? I’m impressed.”
“I’ll forget otherwise. Is that bad? Should I have them memorized?”
With an eloquent snort, she waves a hand. “Girl, please. You’re watching, aren’t you? It’s not like youhaveto do that.”
“So you don’t have their schedule memorized?”
She fiddles with the fringe on her leather wrap skirt. “Eh.”
“Oh, my God, you do!”
“Well... yeah.” Her nose wrinkles in embarrassment. “This is my first long-term relationship. The others lasted a few months tops and then... poof! Done. I’m trying to be supportive.”
I’ve purposely tried to keep from reading about Monica or her life before we became friends. I don’t want to think of her as a huge movie star who walks the red carpet and wins Oscars. I’m afraid I’ll get weird or starstruck, and I don’t want that.
“I actually like football,” I tell her.
Her gaze darts to mine, and then she huffs a light laugh. “Nothing wrong with that. You make it sound like a shameful secret.”
“Not shameful or a secret, really. It’s just that August, and the rest of his family, assumed I never watched or was into it.”
“And that assumption pissed you off,” she says with a nod of understanding.
“Not pissed so much as I found myself not bothering to correct it.”
“They boxed you into a category. You were pissed.”
I blow out a soft, amused breath. “Maybe a little.”
