Heat coats my cheeks as I replay the last few seconds in my head, wondering why I said something so stupid. Except I know why I did; I was trying to relate. To tell Annie she is not alone in her quirks. In some perverted hope that she might find mine as endearing as I find hers. “Here,” I say, handing her back the now-naked orange, the pith carefully stripped away from its segments.
“Thanks,” she says, staring down at it.
“No problem.” And by that, I actually mean I would peel a thousand more if it made her like me half as much as I’m realizing I like her.
We sit in awkward silence as she eats her orange and I, needing something to do with my hands, get to peeling another for myself.
“This is the strangest sleepover I’ve ever had,” Annie jokes, rubbing her hands along the fabric of her dress draped over her thighs to rid them of the citrus oil remnants likely clinging to her fingertips.
“Is this not how they usually go?” I ask. “I never went to any myself, but this is pretty close to how I always imagined a sleepover would be.”
“Wait, really? Are you joking? You never slept over at friends’ houses as a kid?”
“It might surprise you, but I didn’t really have many friends growing up.” Annie looks at me with intense pity that also seems to say,not that surprised. “It wasn’t because of my personality,” I say, knowing that’s what she’s thinking. “Or notjustbecause of that. In school I was widely considered a weird little nerd. Then at home, I was needed to care for my grandfather while my mom was working—she did hair at a local salon during the day and bartended at the Elks Lodge at night. So I didn’t have a lot of free time to socialize with other kids. Besides, spending all that time with an old man didn’t exactly make me relatable. Other preteens weren’t usually interested in discussing the latest episode ofAntiques Roadshow.”
“Is that your origin story? How you got interested in the business?” she asks.
That’s how I learned some of the basics about what made things valuable or not. And how I knew what was worth stealing—or, rather,attemptingto steal—from Virtu when Pop-Pop died and I overheard my mom on the phone with her cousin, lamenting that she didn’t know how we would make ends meet without his Social Security check coming each month. “In a way,” I say, hoping the pause before my answer doesn’t register as cryptic and send Annie’s curiosity on high alert.
“I guess it was a big deal for you when you got to be on the show yourself, then.” The surprise that she knows about my appearance must show on my face, because she immediately explains, “I saw the episode.” Then quickly adds, “Once! I saw it once. When it aired. And never again.”
I decide to ignore the bizarre addendum. “Oh. Yeah. It was. A big deal, I mean. And I had a good time. I’d love to do it again one day. You know, if my professional reputation isn’t in complete tatters over this goose thing.”
“We’ll find it,” Annie says. She sounds and looks so certain. As if she’s decided her ability to throw herself around and expect a soft landing extends to me now too. “In the meantime, though, what should we do?”
I’m sure she doesn’t mean for that question to sound so suggestive. But my pathetic, horny little brain certainly takes any and all implied suggestions, real or imagined, and runs with them, all the way to the massive soaking tub I spotted in the attached bathroom, and then to the dressing room that’s practically all mirrors…
Frankly, I’m both startled and impressed by the explicitness of my thoughts. After the whole ordeal with Mindy, when I realized I can’t simply force or fake my way into feeling a connection with someone, I worried I’d never experience that genuine feeling of wanting someone again. It’s been reassuring to learn that my sexual interest in others does indeed extend beyond Nicole. In fact, the types of thoughts I’m having about Annie are a new level of lust I wasn’t aware I could reach. I can only chalk it up to being on my own for so long. I shake my head slightly, putting a stop to my uncharacteristically salacious fantasies before they become too much more evident. “I don’t know. What’s on the usual agenda for a sleepover?”
Annie leans her head against one of the bed’s posters. She gives me a slow, wolfish grin that makes me feel like something is lodged in my throat. It’s irrational, but my first thought is that she’s come up with an additional way to blackmail me.
“Hmm. How about a game of Truth or Dare?”
THIRTEEN
Annie
Cal looks asstartled at the suggestion we play Truth or Dare as if I’ve proposed knife throwing or BASE jumping.
“Your face,” I say with a chuckle. “You look terrified.”
“Sorry. It’s just that last time I played, I was dared to shotgun three Natty Bohs and I wound up puking in a bush.” I raise my eyebrows to request that story but all I get is, “I went to an all-boys’ private high school for a couple years,” as if that should explain everything. (Which, actually, it kind of does.)
“It was just an idea to pass the time,” I say. “We can do something else, if you’d prefer.”
“No, it’s fine,” he says, focused on picking a piece of lint off his pant leg. Then he looks up at me, his olive eyes catching mine. “So. Truth or dare?”
My breath gets held up in my chest for some reason as I respond, forcing the word to come out strained. “Dare.”
“You would,” he says with a small smirk.
“What does that mean?”
“You just seem the type.” Cal looks around the room, trying to figure out my dare, I suppose, then settles on “Show me the last photo you took on your phone.”
Thank god I deleted the one of a freckle on my ass that I sent to Bridget this morning to ask if she thought it looked weird. I grab my phone out of my purse, swipe over to my photos, and hand it to Cal. He stares down at the image.
His voice comes out as if he’s being gently strangled. “You took a picture of the goose in my living room?”
