I follow her into the kitchen. If the living room is orange and yellow, and the bathrooms are green, what’s the kitchen look like?
Oh. My. God.
The appliances are the same avocado green I’m imagining in the bathrooms, but the countertops are orange, while the backsplash and tile floor are a combination of brown and orange, and the cabinets are a dark brown.
“Astrid, I feel like this is a cry for help.”
She laughs as she fills her tea kettle. “I know, right?”
“Did you say Declan is never coming to Louisiana? So why would you care if he’d hate this? Is he ever going to even see it?”
She frowns. And doesn’t answer at first.
She pushes buttons on the kettle's handle to start the water heating and reaches for cups. Once she has tea scooped into two infusers, she carries the mugs to the table.
“He probably won’t,” she agrees. “It just amuses me to think about him here. He’s so…fastidious.”
That’s one word for it. Declan O’Grady likes things a certain way, that’s for sure.
One of those “certain ways” is expensive. And monochromatic. At least from what I’ve seen of his office, two of the sports cars I’ve seen, and the few times I’ve been to his penthouse.
“I think it’s good for him to learn that not everything can behisway.”
Hmm. I don’t know that that is a lesson Declan is ready, or even able, to learn.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
The kettle whistles, and she retrieves it. She pours water into both of our mugs, then answers. “I’m good. Things are going well here.”
“But areyoudoing well?” I ask.
“Sure.” She shrugs. “I’m still doing all of my usual stuff. I’m just doing it from here.”
Her ‘usual stuff’ includes maintaining a vibrant, positive online community, where she coaches and writes an inspirational column that followers can subscribe to. She’s also on nearly every social media platform, is writing a new book, and is probably getting constant calls for speaking engagements.
“What about Miles?” I ask.
Miles Stafford is Astrid’s best friend. He started as her physical therapist after her injury, but they grew close and have been inseparable for the last few years. Astrid has now been away from him longer than she has been since they met.
“I miss himterribly,” she says. “But he’s coming for a visit soon. He’s going to come see you all play.”
“Good.” I like Miles.
He’s a great guy, and I know that most people who follow Astrid “ship” her and Miles. They all wish they were a romantic couple and a lot of people in Portland who follow local celebrities refuse to believe they’re not. They are seen out and about the city together all the time, and neither has dated anyone seriously or publicly in years.
But they would tell me if their relationship was more than friendship, and it’s simply not. They’re more like siblings. And now that Astrid is married to Portland’s most eligible bachelor, I assume those rumors have died down.
“But I’m really happy foryou,” she says, removing her tea infuser and adding two spoonfuls of sugar to her cup.
I remove my infuser as well and get up for cream. I’m happy for me, too.
I think.
Nora is amazing.
I’d gone over last night to try to regain some feeling of control, some feeling of I-know-what-I’m-doing-dammit,somearea of my life where things would go as I expected them to.
And Nora had blown that out of the water, too.
