Harper:Are we still on for girls night?
Sadie:Of course. We need to discuss how you told a poor innocent bartender to strip for you!
Harper: Not so innocent…
Sadie: see you at 8 sis.
“How on earth did you mix up who you were interviewing?” Sadie exclaims, her voice pitching an octave higher with each iteration of the same question. Since this is the third time she’s asked it without waiting for a reply, I would assume only dogs can hear her now.
She plops herself down onto my oversized couch, assuming her usual position, burrowing into the mountain of throw pillows with a bucket of butter lover’s popcorn in one hand and the brightest, fluffiest, pink blanket in the other.
Even if she burrowed far enough down into the cushions where I couldn’t see her anymore, I would know she was sitting there because of that damn blanket. I use the exact same one,except mine is a dark charcoal that goes with the rest of the neutral décor of my house. After about the fifth or sixth time we fought over it, I decided getting a second one was probably for the best. It’s from one of those big warehouse stores that you always swore as a kid you would never buy your clothes or home décor from. I resisted as long as I could, butfuckthat thing is soft.
Since Sadie deemed it her blanket, she insisted she pick the color, and like a sap I allowed her to. So now I hide the pink fluff ball the minute she leaves my house and only take it out when she’s over.
I could have just returned it without her and gotten a cream or white one, but I think she enjoys watching my eye twitch every time I have to take it out of the cabinet. Depriving her of such entertainment at this point would just be cruel.
“Don’t even get me started. The whole thing was a massive fuck-up, and of course Tessa basically had a meltdown thinking she made the mistake,” I glare as Sadie aggressively rolls her eyes, never really being a huge fan of Tessa’s slightly over the top perfectionism. “We aren’t even hiring a new bartender—he never should have been there to begin with. So, when Tessa told me I had an interview, I just assumed it was for a dancer position because that’s the open position I knew needed to be filled,” I explain, weaving the tasseled end of a throw pillow through my fingers. “Other than the assistant, which now I don’t have to keep looking for,” I shrug. “So, it worked out, right?”
“Did it?” she asks, wiggling her butt to sink, somehow, further into the couch, practically becoming one. “Do you even know if he will be a good assistant? What if he doesn’t know how to work a calendar, or he calls celebrities and says something offhand or careless? I’m obviously going to show him the ropes on the security end of things, but still, it’s a big risk,” she sits up slightly, face deadpanning. “Harper…what if he calls everyone bro?” her limbs twitching in disgust as the shudder passes through her.
“Trust me, I’ve thought of all these things, but what was I supposed to do? I basically humiliated myself and him. I couldn’t just send him packing after all of that,” I say, replaying the way he dropped to his knees before me, like it was physically painful for him to keep that distance between us.
I clear my throat, shaking my head to clear away the instant replay and look up to find Sadie imitating the Cheshire Cat.
“What’s wrong with your face?” I say, twirling a finger at her.
“Absolutely nothing. People smile all the time. Not you, of course. Can’t possibly show people you don’t really have fangs,” she says, pulling her pointer fingers up to the sides of her mouth and hissing until I bat her hands away.
“I smile when I’m with you!” I say, feeling defensive, even though we both know she’s the only one I allow myself to fully relax around.
“Yes, of course. Because I’m a delight and you simply can’t help yourself. But then I go home, and you return to your life of vigilante crime fighting, one lap dance at a time,” she sighs wistfully. “You know, even Batman had a Robin. Lord forbid anyone outside your Fortress of Solitude see you are capable of showing emotion.” She breathes a laugh before shoveling in a handful of popcorn that makes her cheeks puff out.
I hesitate, the words on the tip of my tongue, trying to decide if I should correct her that Batman didn’t have a Fortress of Solitude; that was Superman. Obviously, Batman has the bat-cave.
“Hey, I’m just teasing you,” she tacks on, misunderstanding my hesitation to respond. “I understand you not bringing other people into your fortress,” she says in a light tone, though the corners of her eyes crinkle as she looks me over. It would be silly for her to feel bad about pointing out a very obvious aspectof my life: solitude. But I know she cares more deeply for others’ feelings than her own.
“Don’t worry, between you and the club, I have no time or energy to bring anyone into myFortress of Solitude.” I chuckle, throwing a few kernels of popcorn at her.
“Ew! When you say it like that it sounds dirty,” she gags, leaning forward as far as she can in her cocoon of fluff to grab a fresh box of conversation candy hearts, a years-long vice that I have happily enabled. “Speaking of dirty, tell me more about the new guy who had you drooling onto your shirt a minute ago? I met him briefly, and he seemed nice enough. I gave him the key fobs and told him how to work entrances and all that boring stuff. He’s not my type though,” she throws out casually as I arch a brow in question.
He's everyone’s type.
“Blond,” she replies, which comes out sounding a lot like “duh.”
“There is nothing to tell. He’s going to be my assistant on a trial basis to start out. I’ll have to show him how the calendar works and how the filing system has been set up. I guess the biggest thing he’s going to have to learn is what he needs to do for me within each aspect of the club, and who his main points of contact will be for each. How to handle any complaints, from patrons or employees,” I pause to take a sip of my Diet Coke before I launch into how he still needs to be told the more nuanced rules and etiquette of the club.
“Oh my God, I don’t care about any of that. Tell me about his dick.”
I can feel the sip solidify in my throat, constricting my airway enough that I violently start coughing. Spluttering soda everywhere, like one of those spit takes they do on comedy shows. But far less graceful, and definitely not well-received.
“Ugh, ew! Noooo! It got all over my blanket!” Sadie’s laughter morphs into a whine when she realizes she might haveto get a new blanket for the night. Maybe it will be ruined and need to be thrown away. What a shame.
“Where the hell did that question even come from!” I’m finally able to squeak out, coughing into a napkin I grabbed off the coffee table between words.
“I felt like it was a fairly obvious question to ask. You got all dreamy-eyed when I asked about him and his interview,” she says, the last word punctuated with air quotes. “So, he either has moves you’ve never seen, or he has a monster down there. No wonder you kept the door closed; I would probably want a private showing too.”
“I have no idea, actually,” I admit. “Also,Ididn’t close the door. He did that all on his own,” I tell her, throwing my hands up in mock defense.
