“I always thought she sounded melancholy.” In all honesty, I’d heard a bit of Astrud Gilberto and bossa nova, but never really listened to it before living here. But the point remains.
Sarah laughs shortly. “I guess she does. But her voice makes me happy, so.” She shrugs and Edward shifts to get more comfortable.
Sipping my coffee, I root around in the fridge for the eggs and butter. I’m going to fix myself a nice scramble with toast and then go for a long walk. I don’t want to make small talk with the headache I’m currently blooming, but Sarah stays and watches me cook.
“Where’d you go again?”
“Boston to visit my mom.” I crack an egg and watch it plop into the bowl. “It was all right.”
The eggs start to firm up in the pan. Plating my food, I grab a fork and head out to the little dining nook. I take a seat at the round teak dining table, and Sarah remains leaning against the doorway, watching.
A sense of smallness and failure crawls over my skin. Sometimes I feel like there’s something wrong with me for wanting my solitude. I like being social. But Ineedmy alone time. I need to be able to eat my breakfast without having to talk. Not every day. But today, it pricks at my chest.
When I don’t say anything, Sarah sighs and shakes her headas if to say I’ve failed her yet again. “Edward is a better conversationalist than you.”
“No doubt.” I’m tempted to say she’s free to talk to Edward and leave me to my breakfast.
Maybe she sees it in my face; she huffs in a mix of annoyance and amusement, then strolls over to the turntable and selects another album from the library of records stuffed onto the built-in shelves lining one wall.
The room fills with the melodic sounds of Charlie Byrd’s classical jazz guitar, as Sarah sprawls on a chartreuse velvet armchair and Edward settles on her chest.
Digging into my eggs, I plan my hiking route when the door buzzes.
“I’ll get it,” Sarah says with a watery sigh.
She disappears into the front hall. I hear the rattle of the door opening and then the deep, smooth sound of August asking for me. My fork clatters to the table. It irritates me how quickly my heartbeat kicks up.
Before I can do anything more than sit straight, Sarah rounds the corner and enters the main living room with August in tow. He spots me immediately.
He smiles with his eyes.The thought hits me in the solar plexus. How had I never noticed this before? Oh, there’s a small curl to his lips, polite and reserved, the kind I’ve seen on August’s face many times before. But his eyes? They’re lit with a glow of pleasure that makes me want to beam with happiness, and spreads a glowing warmth through my belly.
I think I’ve waited my whole life for August Luck to look at me like this, and now that he is, I don’t know what to do with myself. My hands flutter about like butterfly wings before I shove them in my lap and give him a dignified “Hello, August.”
It only makes the smile spread over his whole face. God, he’s like the sun breaking over bleak hills.
“Hello, Penelope.” He uses the same proper tone, but I hear the humor in his voice all the same. It’s as though we’re sharinga private joke, only I’ve forgotten the punch line. All the same, I feel like smiling wide. I don’t, of course. Sarah is hovering, mouth agape as she stares at August. As if feeling her gaze, he glances back at her, and his “dealing with the public” expression returns.
I shove back my chair and stand. “Sarah, this is August. He’s ah... an old friend. August, Sarah is my roommate.”
At that moment, as if to voice his protest in being ignored, Edward perks up and lets out a loud croak.
August nearly jumps out of his skin. His wide-eyed gaze zeroes in on Edward and he turns decidedly pale. Despite this, he clearly makes an effort not to react further. No, August Luck, King of Control, merely bows his head. “Good day to you too, sir.”
In less than five minutes he’s made my whole day better. I’m in big trouble.
August
Pen’s roommate looks like she’s cosplaying Daphne fromScooby-Doo, right down to the orange hair. I do mean orange, not red. She’s been eyeing me from the moment she opened the door. And frankly, I’d been too distracted by those long, gawking looks to notice her companion. Until he croaked.
He’s all I notice now. Because sitting on the roommate’s shoulder, is a fucking enormous frog, wearing a jaunty purple top hat. A top hat just like the Mad Hatter’s fromAlice in Wonderland. There’s even a tiny “10/6” ticket tucked into the hatband.
I blink again, wondering if I tripped up somewhere and fell down a rabbit hole.
“Where are my manners,” Sarah says, shooting a glare at Pen before picking up the frog and presenting him to me on the palm of her hand. “This is Edward.”
Years ago, I came across my parents laughing their asses offwhile watching an old ’50s cartoon of a frog in a top hat who would sing and dance for his owner, but only when no one else was looking. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if Edward here does the same.
“Ah... good to meet you, Edward.” I amnotshaking hands. It’s all I can do to keep from diving over the red lip-shaped coffee table and hide behind Pen. I’m not ashamed to admit: Frogs give me the creeps. I’m not going to admit this out loud, however. I have the feeling Sarah would brain me if I did.
