“But are they? I seem to recall an encounter in a bus this afternoon…”
“My greatest performance.”
“Oh, come now, Bea…”
“There’s something else I haven’t told you.”
“And what, pray tell, is that?”
“I actually come from a long line of talented actresses. My mom ran the community theater and acted in all of their shows when I was growing up. I get a lot of talent from her.”
“And she taught you to fake orgasms?”
I truly wish I could see her smile, though sensing it is almost as good. “Yep. Good thing I’m their only girl. OtherwiseI would’ve had to teach my sister too, and that would’ve been awkward.”
Ten minutes ago, I would’ve thought it impossible, but I’m laughing at the image of Bea sitting down a fictional sister to explain the ins and outs of faking orgasms.
Laughing.
Feeling lighthearted.
As though the worldwillturn out all right in the end.
My children will learn and grow and become mostly functional adults.
I may or may not have any more professional success—the more time I spend with Bea, the more I find myself brainstorming ways to change this script before I have to turn it in to the studio to hide the true inspiration—but it will be okay.
I have time.
And I have time with Bea.
“You are good for my soul,” I say, and oddly enough, I don’t instantly regret it.
“Give me five minutes and I can fix that.” Her phone’s flashlight flickers on. “Better. I can drink in the dark. I can’t eat strawberry shortcake in the dark.”
She grins at me, and her dimples pop, and then she forks a bite of strawberry shortcake into her mouth, making strawberry juice dribble down her chin, and everything else that’s wrong in the world fades into the background.
I lean in to her and brush the strawberry juice from her chin, then suck the sweet taste off my thumb.
She watches me, close enough that I can see her clearly, her eyes wide, her lips parted, her breath coming quicker.
Her gaze dips to my lips. “You keep doing that.”
“Haven’t been disappointed yet.”
Her tongue darts out to sweep her lower lip.
I set aside my strawberry shortcake and my beer.
Then I take hers and set them aside as well.
“This wasn’t my goal,” she whispers as I thread my fingers through her hair and lower my mouth to hers.
“What was your goal?”
“Just to be a friend. I thought you might need one.”
“Do you object to me kissing you?”
