“‘Be still my heart’? ‘Suck it’? A guy starts to wonder if it’s all just a sloppy attempt at seduction.” He cackles in a manner reserved for hellspawn. “G’night, 5A.”
“I do not moan—”
His door closes with a passive-aggressivesnick.
My face is hot, lit by an internal Easy-Bake Oven of hate and mortification. My bedroom and his, like our respective living rooms, butt up against each other. I have been known to talk in my sleep, but I’venever… Oh, he knows exactly how to push my buttons.
I slam my door, willing the sound to reverberate into his apartment as loudly as possible. The show of temper feels like the official loss of a skirmish, no less so when a retaliatory bang sounds on the living room wall.
I snort, but my phone vibrates in my hand, forcing a momentary ceasefire.
Margie:
Meet me at La Smith.
I have news.
Might as well call in sick now for Monday.
It’s only Saturday, and I text back to tell her so.
Margie:
I know. Make the call. See you in ten.
I chuckle and head to my bedroom to change and throw on some makeup, supremely pleased with this well-timed excuse to beat a strategic retreat.
2
Fifteen minutes later, Margie sweeps into La Smith, our favorite corner gastropub, and joins me at the bar. She is effortlessly polished, elevating jeans, heels, and a simple top to haute couture. The proof that God has favorites is clear in her pixyish black curls and the high, gold-dusted cheekbones setting off her light-brown skin.
I grimace and swipe a hand over my copper bun. We’re like Lady and the Tramp. The Princess and the Frog. The hot French female chef fromRatatouilleand the fucking rat. I share as much as we greet each other with an air kiss.
“Stop. You’re gorgeous. Plus I just rolled out of bed,” she says.
“Was the bed inVogue?” I hand her a glass of wine, which she downs in a few impressive gulps before signaling to the bartender for another.
I frown, looking her over from her amber eyes to the tips of her Louboutins. A review once called Margie “a talent-to-watch who will be known for her nuanced and emotional performances,” but she saves all those nuances for the screen. For her friends, she always wears the same inscrutable smirk, so I can’t tell whether she’s been nominated for an Emmy or just watched an illegally parked Honda get sideswiped by a garbage truck.
“Prepare yourself,” she finally says. “You’re about to be murdered. By my news. Deceased.” Her deadpan monotone is in full effect as she punctuates her words with an airy wave that might be a loose sign of the cross. She accepts the fresh glass of wine from the bartender with a nod and takes a sip.
Concern and excitement ripple through me. Trust the actress to play this for maximum drama. “Okay?” I grab for my glass and lean against the bar.
Margie takes a deep breath. “Series regular,” she murmurs.
My hand flies to my mouth. “Shut your face.” I set my glass down. “Margie!”
“Sorry. I don’t know who this ‘Margie’ is. I’m Leslie Linkletter, Esquire, now.”
I fling my arms around her, jumping up and down. She embraces me with one hand and downs the rest of her wine with the other. “This is amazing!” I shout, breathless with joy.
She inclines her head regally, but her brown eyes glow with excitement. Margie has had a handful of scene-stealing guest appearances in the last year on a legal thriller calledGlass and Carter. And apparently she made enough of an impression for the show to want her on full-time—something she’s hoped for but wasn’t sure would actually happen.
I spy Avery at the entrance, ducking his way into the bar as only the very tall do. The only right angle in our little friendship triangle, he looks, as always, like Regé-Jean Page disguised as a librarian. “What happened? What’s going on?” he asks, approaching us. I cheer and pull him forward.
Margie musses his tidy hair and wrinkles her nose. “Series regular.”
He laughs and grabs her up in a hug, twirling her around with a whoop. “Tell me everything! Also, I can’t believe you told Penny before me.”
