“Platonic,” she repeats.
“Sounds like a science term, astronomy specifically, or the symptom of a disease. Official definition: the absence of anything that would make a person happy.”
“What dictionary did you use?”
I tap my temple.
“I’m pretty sure platonic means the absence of romantic affections,” she says.
“In that case, like you and me?”
She tucks her head back. “You and me?” she repeats.
“Is that what this is?” I ask.
“Oh, right. Us. Yep. Purely platonic. That’s what this is. Nothing more. Yeesh. Of course. Duh.” Her eyes dart everywhere but at me.
A long beat passes while I have an internal fistfight with myself before dropping my hands and then pointing. “Look. The fridge. I wonder if there’s a cake inside.”
Another wall hosts several stainless-steel doors with long handles.
I should probably close myself in the freezer first to cool off. Stay in there for a day or two, because My Mag-amor just froze me out.Platonic.
Rolling my shoulders back, I can’t leave the ball in play.
Must. Finish. The. Game.
“Ah-ha. Which do you think is the lucky door? One, two, three, or four?” I ask.
“I’m going to go with four.”
“Like lucky player number forty-four.” I pull the door open and sure enough, it holds all manner of desserts from cheesecake to pie to parfait.
Maggie’s eyes widen. “Found the cake.”
It’s chocolate topped with swirls of whipped buttercream and little white candy pearls.
“That’s perfect. It’s official cake day. Or it was yesterday. Actually, I have no idea what day it is.” She sounds genuinely excited and like time doesn’t matter.
That makes me smile inwardly. “The best times I’ve ever had in my life were when I’ve forgotten what time or day it is.”
Her shoulders sink slightly as though the comment pinches something inside.
“This looks delicious. Care to split a slice with me?” I ask, wanting to bring back her smile.
“Usually, I share, but tonight, my dining companion had the worst manners, and I lost my appetite. I hardly ate a thing andam starved. You can have your own.” As she elbows past me and helps herself to a big piece, I detect the faintest smile.
As she balances it in her hand, I grip her waist and pick her up before setting her down lightly on the stainless-steel table.
She makes a little yelp of surprise and then quickly brings her empty hand to her mouth. “I forgot that I shouldn’t make any noise,” she whispers.
I hoist myself up beside her and then take a big bite of cake. She takes a tiny one. She closes her eyes for a moment and then her legs swing as though she’s a little girl who’d snuck into the kitchen for a midnight snack and is clearly pleased with herself.
Another thing that I’ve always loved about Maggie is that she’s playful, whimsical, and will do something like this and just have fun. So many of the women I’ve known in recent years think of fun as schmoozing, tipping back champagne, shopping, and tapping my credit card to pay for it all.
Maggerita blinks open her eyes as I stuff the rest of the piece of cake in my mouth. “You’re lucky I’m not grading you on this for manners. You inhaled that thing.” Despite claiming hunger, she’s barely made a dent in her piece.
“This is not an authorized lesson, so I’m off the hook, but you are not,” I say, wanting to remain in this secret space where we can be ourselves, best friends, and not have cameras, etiquette teachers, or anyone else intrude.
