"Eek!" flies out of me. I twirl a few times until I get dizzy, grab the counter, laughing, and get back to work. I approve final sketches, argue with the pattern maker about dart placement, and pretend I'm not counting down the minutes. At four-thirty, I slip into the restroom, lock myself in a stall, and text Red.
Me: Hey. Stall selfie incoming because I'm hiding like a teenager.
I snap a quick photo with my chin tilted up, a small smirk, and the top button of my blouse undone just enough to show the edge of my collarbone. Then I send it before I can overthink it.
His reply comes fast.
Red: Jesus, Bluebird. You're trying to kill me at work. That's not fair.
Red: Also, you're beautiful. Like always.
Heat crawls up my neck. I bite my lip and type back.
Me: Can't wait for our double date tonight!
Silence stretches, making panic crawl up my spine.
Me: Hello?
Dots appear, disappear, then appear again.
Red: Should be interesting.
Relief hits me.
He's not backing out.
Red: My next appointment's here. Gotta go.
He sends a kiss emoji.
I send him one back, feeling happy, hopefully, and on top of the world.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Red
Lights twinkle against the darkness through the glass. I stand at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled to my elbows, adjusting the second cuff link with more precision than necessary. The metal clicks into place, and I check my watch.
7:12 P.M.
Forty-eight minutes until they arrive.
Plenty of time.
Too much time.
The low hum of the wine fridge and the occasional tick of ice settling in the tray are the only sounds. I've already set four places at the table. And I like variables minimized before anything unpredictable walks through my door. So my simple white plates and heavy linen napkins give me a moment of control. Yet I'm not stupid. I know it's a farce.
Mikhail is coming for dinner.
The dread I've felt all day returns. I attempt to ignore it and pick up my phone. There are no new messages from Blue since her selfie at four-thirty.
I don't need to see it. The image is still burned behind my eyelids just like all the other photos she's ever sent me. This one has her chin tilted, several undone buttons that expose the delicate ridge of her collarbone, and her small knowing smirk.
It's an innocent photo if looked at first glance, but I know my Bluebird. It was sent for me, with subliminal messages written all over it. And she has no idea how close I came to canceling my last two appointments.
Another round of ice falls in the freezer, and the hairs on my neck rise.
