“I’m loose,” she argues.
I give her a look. She grins sheepishly. “Wrong context?” I ask.
She nods and pulls her legs out from under her sweatshirt. “I don’t want to write steamy sex. It’s as simple as that.”
“Do you want tohavesteamy sex?”
She ignores me. “How was school today?”
“C’mon, Natalie. It’s not going to kill you to talk about it.”
“I am not discussing my sex life with you.”
“Why? I’m your best friend. I thought women tell their best friend’s all the dirty details.”
“I think that rule changes if the best friend is a heterosexual of the opposite gender.”
“Stupid rule,” I say, backhanding the air between us.
Natalie shrugs. I can tell she’s digging in her heels.
“School was fine,” I answer, lifting my arms and intertwining my fingers around the back of my head. “Same as usual.”
“Did you flirt with the old lady again?” Natalie grins.
“Of course,” I say. “I’ve been doing it for so long I think it would hurt her feelings if I stop.”
“You know,” Natalie says, her pointer finger tracing the lines in a couch cushion. “I added that to my manuscript after you read it. I can’t remember if I told you.”
“You had the hero flirt with an old lady?”
She nods. “It showed the reader a side of him that was hidden. He didn’t flirt in an obnoxious way. In a sweet, kind way.”
A weird part of me feels honored. If she put my actions in a book, it means she thinks highly of me. In this one way, at least. She’s made no secret her distaste of my dating choices. If you could call what I do ‘dating.’ Essentially, it goes something like this: show up at a previously agreed upon spot, make small talk, decipher if the other person is a serial killer who wants to hang us up on a meat hook and make tiny cuts all over our body, and then decide if we want it to turn into sex. End of story.
Natalie tips her head to the side. “Isn’t tonight your date thing? Can you call it a date if you’re only meeting for sex?” She glances into her kitchen as she speaks. She’s probably mentally sifting through her fridge for dinner options.
My silence answers for me. Natalie’s eyes take on a knowing look, and then she rolls them.
“Allison, right?” she asks.
I nod reluctantly. I really hate talking about this with Natalie.
“Any chance she could be the one?”
I make a face and Natalie laughs.
Despite our differences, we’re careful not to judge one another too harshly, or too openly. She wants Prince Charming on a white horse, I don’t believe in love at all. In a nutshell, this is why we work.
“Brunch tomorrow?” I ask her.
She nods, leans back on a pillow, and stretches out, tucking her toes under my thigh.
I know the answer to the question before I ask it, but it’s worth a shot. “Do you want me to pass your manuscript to my mom?”
“No, but thank you.” I feel her toes wiggling under my thigh. “I want to make it because I’m good enough, not because I have an in.”
Grabbing the remote, she turns the movie back on.
