Okay, fine. She’s not like other socialites I’ve known, especially my ex. I can admit that now. The hair color looked similar at first, but Lisa turned out to be nothing like I thought. She’s more fun than I expected. Not the polished kind of sexy, but the sweet, funny, smart-as-hell, blow-my- fucking-mind kind of sexy.
Is it so surprising I’d want that again?
I’m saved from answering my own douchey, defensive question when the phone rings.
Lisa Michaels, the readout says, and I’m annoyed by how happy that makes me.
“Yo,” I answer, getting into the spirit of The Test. That’s the opposite of how people in her circle would normally answer the phone, right?
“Um, yo?” Lisa’s greeting comes out sounding more like a question, but then she laughs. “My normal instinct would be to wait for a guy to call me first after a date, so according to the rules of The Test, I’m calling you first.”
“Very nice,” I say, more delighted than I ought to be. “You get a gold star and a cupcake.”
She giggles, and I realize just how much I love that sound. “A cupcake,” she repeats. “That sounds nice. I could use one after the day I had.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“No, I just called to see if you might be free next Saturday for?—”
“You should, then.”
“What?”
“Talk about your day,” I say. “If your instinct says not to, then you should.”
She’s quiet, probably wondering what the hell this has to do with our sex game. So am I.
Or maybe I’m not. Maybe I enjoy the soft lilt of her voice on the phone. Maybe I want to hear about her day. Is that so weird?
Lisa clears her throat. “I don’t like to complain about work to anyone.”
“All the more reason you should,” I tell her. “Maybe it’ll feel better to not bottle things up inside.”
“Well,” she starts slowly, hesitating. “First I had a client throw a royal fit because the drapes I ordered for her are more cornflower than cerulean.”
“They both sound delicious.”
She laughs. “Then I got a call from a couple I’ve been working with for six months to redesign their penthouse apartment,” she continues. “Apparently, they’re divorcing and want to cancel the job.”
“Maybe they’ll move into separate homes and you’ll get to decorate both.”
“That is a good thought.” There’s a clink of a glass, and I wonder if she’s sipping the rest of the wine from yesterday. I wish I were there with her to enjoy it, to rub her feet as she tells me about her day.
Wait. What the hell is going on?
“Anyway,” she says, “After that meeting, I took my sister-in-law to lunch, and even though we made it perfectly clear we needed a gluten-free meal, they brought out salads with croutons.”
Something about her words annoys me. Makes me want to lash out about first-world problems and made-up dietary drama and?—
“Isn’t the gluten-free trend a little last year?” It’s a lame jab, but it’s the best I’ve got.
“Excuse me?”
There’s an unexpected sharpness in her voice, and I can’t figure out why she’s getting so uptight. Kaitlyn got like that, too, always villainizing some new food group. First it was carbs, then dairy, then gluten. Never for any medical reason, mind you. She was just following the trend.
“Look,” I tell Lisa, determined to do what she’s asked me. To break her out of that mold. “How about we go out for a nice, greasy pizza, and?—”
“For your information,” Lisa snaps, “Celiac disease is common in people with Down Syndrome. If Junie eats gluten, she’s sick for days.”
