“Then get a goddamn milkshake or something, I don’t care.” I snort. “Just stay there.”
Ending the call before she can annoy me more than she has already, I walk back to where Matt is waiting for me, looking none too impressed. Bypassing him, I continue to Jonesy.
“Can you call your wife?”
Jonesy looks up at me from his newspaper, one bushy eyebrow arching. “Do… do I have to?”
“It’s Poppy,” I say by way of explanation. “She needs…help.”
Jonesy is fully aware of my agreement with Poppy, since itwas technically all his idea. He refuses to believe it’s fake, having told me with the utmost certainty that by the time we come to the end of our contract, it will be anything but, but he’s also toeing the outskirts of dementia, so unless it has to do with golf, I take what Phillip Jones says with a grain of salt most of the time.
With a grumble, Jonesy pulls his phone from the pocket of his trousers and, holding it at arms’ length to see the screen, he fumbles with the device before moving it to his ear.
“Sweetheart? Yeah… baby girl, I’m with Brookes… yeah, he needs your help, darling.” He looks up at me, listening to whatever his wife is saying to him in response, and then, with a smug smirk, he hands the phone over to me.
“Hey, Lori,” I say.
“Well, hi, honey!” Lori Jones’ thick Texan accent rings through the phone.
“Are you…freeright now?” I ask, hopefully.
“Oh, baby, for you I’m always free; you know that.”
I sniff a laugh. “I know you technically have never even met her, but… Poppy… she needs some help finding a dress for the children’s hospital charity gala tonight.”
“Well now, don’t you go threatening me with a good time,” Lori shrieks. “Where’s she at, baby?”
“Worth,” I say. “She just had a… shitty experience at Bellamy’s… apparently.”
“Well, now that does not surprise me one bit with thoseassholeswho work there.” Lori scoffs. “You tell that cute little ray of sunshine that I’ll be down there in less than ten minutes and that Black Amex of yours better be ready for a workout, okay, honey?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I smile.
“Bye, baby.” Lori makes a kissy sound into the phone, and I take that as my cue to hand it back to Jonesy.
Grabbing my cell again, I text Poppy.
Me: Lori Jones is on her way to you right now.
Poppy: Jonesy’s wife??
Me: Yeah. She’ll help you.
Me: And you’re not fat.
Poppy: Yes, I am.
Me: You’re not! Don’t say that.
Poppy: I am fat, Brookes. And that’s okay. Fat isn’t a bad word. There is literally nothing wrong with it. The only people who ever make it an issue are non-fat people who try to use it like a weapon.
As I read her rant, I realize she’s right. In my opinion, I wouldn’t classify Poppy as fat. But I supposetechnicallyshe is. Fuck, I don’t know. I also don’t know why I am currently texting a girl, arguing over whether she’s fat or not.
Poppy: I’m fat. And I’m hot. Sure, I have my off days, but even the most beautiful people feel self-conscious sometimes.
Wanting to lighten the mood, I can’t help myself with my reply.
Me: Yes, yes we do.
