7. Ophie
Ophie
Philip’s rendition of “Wannabe” gives me the giggles every time. It doesn’t matter that I’ve seen it plenty of times over the years of our friendship. At karaoke. Stone-cold sober in the car. Slightly tipsy in his living room. Very tipsy in Cassie and TJ’s kitchen.
I don’t know if it’s the memory of him doing the dance from the music video on the stairs of the school library, or the fact that he does the little knee-jiggle move every time they sing “Zig-a-zig-ah” that makes me giggle the most.
Philip is always making me laugh. It’s one of the reasons he’s my best friend.
Right now, he’s bouncing against the seat and singing loudly as he drives us home from the winery. The windows are down, the early summer breeze whipping through the car and tangling my hair as I sing duet with him.
A Kylie Minogue song comes on next. Apparently, South Africans are very into her, but since it’s not a song I know, I let Philip sing along by himself while I gaze, boneless and brainless, out the window at the fields of sheep. My mind is fuzzy and soft with a combination of wine and knowing that Philip has everything under control.
The music volume dips, and Philip drops his hand to my thigh, squeezing to get my attention. “You know, I didn’t think I’d be meeting an honest-to-god billionaire when I woke up this morning.”
I stare at his hand on my leg, not registering his words for a moment as his heat sears into my skin. Forcing myself not to react to the touch, even though it’s taking up the majority of my brain space, I pull my hair back in one hand so I can answer without eating it.
“Maggie talks about Nate and Greg so much that I forget the Suttons actually own it. I’ve never met Lauren or Frankie before. Or Emma. They’re a riot,” I add as Philip puts his hand back on the steering wheel. For a fleeting moment, I consider taking it back, before sense wins out.
“Emma is trouble. I shudder at the thought of her and Sydney ever meeting.” Philip adds a dramatic full-body shake to emphasize his point, and I giggle.
“She’s a spitfire, for sure.”
“Okay, Grandma.” Philip reaches over to poke my side. “Who says shit like ‘spitfire’ these days?”
I poke him back. “Like I didn’t hear you complaining about your back being sore as we walked out to the car.”
This is the kind of banter with my best friend I’ve been missing. We fire away at each other as the road slips by beneath the wheels.
“I helped move a lot of tables.” Philip pulls one hand free of the steering wheel to flex his biceps. Not that it was necessary. I’d been admiring the way his muscles flexed beneath his T-shirt all afternoon.
“Thank you for helping. Maggie deeply appreciated it, even if you really didn’t have to.” When my sister finally woke up and came up to the tasting room, it was clear that she still wasn’t feeling well. I didn’t realize how bad her morning sickness had been until today, but despite how she glows with happiness every time she looks at Kel or Olive, it’s painfully obvious she’s struggling.
“She was in no shape to be moving shit.”
“There were four other men there.” I’d ended up sitting with Lauren and Sophie while Frankie and Emma scurried around with decor under Maggie’s direction. I’d been filled in on which man belonged to which woman and laughed at the stories Lauren had told of their various romantic journeys.
All four men were as different as their significant others, but the contrast of Julian’s imposing, tattooed frame beside Frankie’s fairy-like body was especially entertaining. I kept waiting for him to pick her up and tuck her under his arm like a football.
“Maybe I just didn’t want to look like a lazy do-nothing in front of my wife.”
My stomach drops and twists, just like it does every time Philip calls me his wife. “Don’t,” I warn him with a heavy sigh.
“Don’t, what?”
I can hear the teasing in his tone. I know he’s not trying to start a fight, but even in the car with just the two of us, I can’t help feeling like someone is going to overhear. Nervousness fills my stomach and my lungs seize.
“You’re not my husband.” I’m met with silence. The combination of anxiety and wine bubbles up in me, bypassing the filter that usually keeps my thoughts contained inside my mind. “I mean, you are my husband. But, like, we’re not in a relationship. Well, we are, but it’s a best-friends relationship. Not a…Not a romantic relationship. We don’t do romance. I don’t even know if I know how to do romance anymore. I like things how they are. Don’t say things that remind me things are different—”
“Ophie.” Philip cuts off my rambling. “Everything is exactly the same between us. Nothing is different.” He reaches out to turn the volume up on the music, and I melt back into the seat to stare out the window.
I definitely had a little too much wine because, for a second, I’m convinced I hear him mutter “unless you want it to be.”
Google Maps is not improving my mood. “An hour? I don’t remember it being that far.” I let my head flop back onto the couch, my phone slipping off my legs onto the seat beside me.
“What’s an hour?” Philip sets down the coffee mugs in his hands and sits beside me.
“Remember how I applied to a million and one jobs last week? I just got a request for an interview.”
“So why aren’t you happy? Because it’s an hour away?”
I nod, not bothering to sit up and take the coffee he made for me. “It’s at a paper mill in Longview, Washington. I wasn’t exactly being picky when I filled out all those applications.”
Philip takes a long sip of his coffee before giving me a look. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. At least you won’t get deported if you can’t find a job right away.”
The reminder of how this started cuts through my irritation, turning it back to more familiar anxiety. Now with added “I committed immigration fraud” flavor and a dash of “I enjoy living with Philip so much more than I was expecting,” just to be confusing.
“Even if I was working full-time at the coffee shop, which I’m not, it’s not enough to keep up with rent on this place for much longer.” With a groan, I sit up and take the mug waiting for me on the coffee table. “But it’s an hour away, and I just don’t want to.”
We sip our drinks in silence for a moment, the early morning sun peeking through the blinds bathing his golden skin in light. After two weeks of him being here, I’ve finally stopped squeaking every time I see him shirtless, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate that my best friend is attractive as fuck. And somehow manages to stay tan, even in the winter.
“How about I go with you?”
“What?” I cough as the coffee I was in the middle of swallowing almost goes down the wrong tube.
“I’ll drive you to the interview.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t. But I want to.” Philip leans forward to set his mug down. “Come on, we’ll make a day of it. I’ll drive so you can get all Zen and shit. I promise to sing all the way there if it helps keep you distracted. And afterward, we can either come straight home or go on a little coast adventure.”
He’s determined to make this happen now, I can tell by the look on his face. There’s a particular set to his jaw and glint in his eye he gets when the word adventure comes out. If I try and deny him the chance to come, he’ll either pester me until I relent, or he’ll hide my keys on the morning of the interview so I’m forced to let him drive me.
Opting for the path that leads to less anxiety and annoyance on my end, I relent. “Fine. You can drive me. And we’ll get lunch or something before we come home. I can’t go to the coast, I have to work a closing shift that afternoon.”
Philip’s face relaxes when I agree, the stubborn squint gone from his eyes. “It’s a date.” He grins and is gone before I can argue over his choice of words.
By Tuesday afternoon, I’m regretting agreeing to let him come as he leans against my doorway, one arm lifted, his hand gripping the top, and one foot crossed over the other. “Your thirst-trap posing has no effect on me.” Ignoring him, I put the black blazer in my hand back on the rack as Hozier’s latest song starts blaring from behind me.
Turning, a navy-blue pantsuit in my hand, I’m presented with my best friend/husband lip-syncing the words as he rolls his hips against the doorframe. He grins when my cheeks flame up. “You sure?” he interrupts his lip-syncing to ask.
I nod and hold the pantsuit up in front of my body. “Better?”
“One of these days, Ophelia van der Merwe, God is going to smite you down for all your lies.” Philip grins and switches to twerking off-beat with the sultry music, making me laugh. “No pantsuits in a paper mill.”
“My lies? Excuse me, Mr. van der Merwe, but I am not the one who faked ‘stomach issues’ to get out of Professor White’s pop quiz.” I hang the pantsuit back up and pull out a black pencil skirt and wine-colored blazer combo. “And that’s Ms. Moore.”
“With your white button-down.” He nods to the outfit in my hand and pauses the music. After strutting across the room, he takes them from my hands and hangs them up on the hook on the back of my door. “You’re going to be great. Now stop fussing and come help me. Then you’re going to bed to get a good night’s sleep.”
Taking me by the hand, Philip drags me out of my room and to the couch, where his laptop is sitting open on the coffee table. “What do you think?”
I settle beside him and pull his laptop closer. Big bubble letters spelling out “Unca Pee-Pee” are splashed across the screen in different color combinations and gradients.
“You were serious? Nicola and Jono are going to kill you.”
The grin that splits his face overflows with mischief. “I know. I’m going to get them matching shirts too. This is going to be the best Christmas ever.”
I glance out the window at the setting sun, then at the clock in the corner of the screen. It’s past nine o’clock and still light outside, but the air is chilly. It may be the middle of June, but the nights are still cool. The AC unit in the living room is quiet—I turned it off when I came home from work and found Philip napping on the couch with goose bumps covering his arms. My apartment is one of the lucky ones with an air-conditioning unit strong enough to keep the whole place bearable even in the worst heat waves, but it works a little too well in these in-between weeks, as Portland decides whether it’s ready to dive headfirst into the summer temps.
It’s warm in his bedroom, and I make a mental note to turn it on low before we go to bed.
“It must be so weird to have Christmas in the middle of summer,” I blurt out, my mind still on the weather as we get into the car the next morning. As the cool air flows through the AC vents, I direct it on my face to stop the beads of nervous sweat gathered on my temples from rolling down my face and ruining my makeup.
“Nah, the weather isn’t the weird part. The weird part is when there’s still people dressed up as Santa Claus when it’s thirty degrees outside—”
I grin because I love listening to him say “thirty.” It sounds like “thutty,” and for some reason, I find that hilarious. Also, he knows I’m about to comment on his Celsius stubbornness.
Philip slaps his hand across my mouth before I can say anything. “—and sending Christmas cards with snow and evergreen trees.” We stop at a red light, and he leans in close, his blue eyes filling my field of vision. Even this close, I can tell he’s smiling too. “You Americans and your turkey dinner and snow. You have no idea what you’re missing. A Christmas braai with boerewors, roast potatoes, and salad is actually the perfect holiday feast.”
I pull back and eye him. “Roast potatoes with barbecued sausage? What a weird combo.”
“No judgment until you try it.”
“I have always wanted to try boerewors.” My mouth struggles over the unfamiliar word. “Boo-ra-vors? Bore-worst?”
Philip bursts out laughing and pulls away from the light. He keeps laughing as he merges onto the highway toward Longview. “Boo,” he starts, waiting until I echo him.
“Boo.”
“Re.” He rolls his r in a way I can’t quite copy, but I do my best.
“Vorz.”
“Vorz.”
“Boo-re-vorz.” A brilliant smile tugs at his lips as he says it slowly, and I copy as best I can. “We’ll make an Afrikaner of you yet.”
We spend the rest of the hour-long drive with Philip attempting to describe various South African foods to me, and I have to admit, several sound delicious. We violently disagree on the correct color of cream soda, though. Cream soda should absolutely never be electric green.
He keeps me distracted and at ease until he pulls into the parking lot of a large warehouse beside the river fifteen minutes before my interview.
“Right-o, Mrs. Hot Stuff. Here we are.”
“Mrs. Hot Stuff?” I turn to him, one eyebrow raised.
He shrugs and grins, head tilted to the side. “Just trying it on for size. What do you think?”
“No.” I laugh and sink into my seat, fiddling with the ends of my fingers. The nerves Mr. Hot Stuff had been keeping at bay refill my belly as I pick at my nails. A hangnail on my right middle finger catches against my other hand, making me flinch. If I don’t take care of it now, I’m going to end up ripping it and bleeding on my white shirt.
Pulling my purse onto my lap, I scavenge through the pockets for my clippers. “‘Mrs. Hot Stuff’ sounds as if the Hot Stuff is actually you, so it’s not a compliment to me. It makes me sound like an accessory to your already established level of hotness.”
Which is not a lie, but I would never admit it.
I keep speaking, not looking at Philip while I hunt for the elusive cuticle nippers. “I’d prefer for my nickname to be based solely on my own merit, not my pretend husband’s. Besides, I already have one.”
“Technically not pretend, liefling,” he points out, using the nickname he gave me a few weeks after we met—the one I’ve never looked up the meaning of because I’m too scared of ruining our friendship to look too deeply into it.
My fingers close over the clippers, and I pull them out to snip the hangnail before it drives me bonkers. Philip is uncharacteristically quiet as I focus on my fingernails. “You okay?” I ask, not looking up.
“Yeah…” He sounds distracted, so I lift my head to see what he’s doing. “There are a lot of men around here.”
I open my mouth to point out the obvious—this is a mill and a shipping yard—when it sinks in what he means. Groups of men, four and five to a pack, are moving around the parking lot and adjacent shipyard. I’ve never been catcalled by a construction crew, but it feels distinctly as though that might happen the moment I step out of the car.
As we stare at the scene, mouths agape, and I mentally berate myself for picking the tight pencil skirt and not my wide-legged trousers, another car pulls up and parks a few spots away. A short, full-figured woman steps out and scurries toward the door marked Office . She’s wearing dark jeans and an ill-fitting polo shirt, with a chunky brown cardigan over it. I don’t miss the way she clutches her purse to her chest and barely looks around as she moves. A chorus of greetings and whistles surround her, which she only acknowledges with a backward wave and zero eye contact.
“Hmm.” Philip echoes my thoughts as the door closes behind her. He picks my left hand up from where it rests on the edge of my purse, his long fingers playing over the ring on my middle finger. The cheap one we bought from a vending machine in Vegas that I’ve kept on my middle finger since we walked out of the little chapel on the Strip. “Do you want me to walk you to the door?”
I hesitate, my independence warring with fear. I study the clock on the dashboard. Seven minutes until my interview. “I’ll be okay. I’m sure they’re all just talk. Besides, you’ll be able to see me the whole way.”
Nerves churn in my stomach as he keeps playing with my ring, twisting it on my finger. “Fine. But—” He slips the ring off and replaces it on my ring finger, an artificial wedding band that somehow calms some of my fear.
“Philip…”
“Just humor me.” When he looks up, his mischievous smile is back in place. “Please?”
I huff out a chuckle. “Fine. But only because you asked nicely.” Pulling my hand away, I click my purse closed, determination snapping into place. “Wish me luck!”
The second my hand lands on the door handle, Philip pulls me back. I’m not ready for it and fall back, catching myself against the center console. Instead of kissing the side of my head like he always does, his lips land on the edge of my mouth. And since I habitually air kiss whenever he does it, what should have been a perfectly normal, platonic goodbye between friends becomes Philip and I actually kissing.
On the lips.
For longer than a peck.
We separate with a choked gasp, and I immediately scramble out of the car. My lips burn with the memory, but I ignore it and pull my blazer straight before slinging my purse over my shoulder.
As I close the door, the sight of Philip frozen in place, one hand covering his mouth and eyes wide, sears itself into my mind. While he looks as if the world just moved two degrees off its axis, I feel like a buzzing in the depths of my brain has quieted. The fact that what just happened left me feeling calm and settled instead of confused is a puzzle I’ll have to sort out later.
Right now, I have an interviewer to impress.