Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Zoey
“Knock, knock!”
I’m used to my privacy constantly being invaded sharing a house with four of my best friends. But as Sam ducks inside my room, I shove my phone under my thigh, like I’ve been caught doing something far worse than reading and rereading and re-rereading my text conversation with Gavin.
Which is what I’ve been doing this morning when I should have been going running with Harper or even showering for work.
No, I’ve been lounging in bed, squirming as I look back over our decidedly not professional texts. I took screenshots of just in case my phone ever died. The last time I obsessed so much over a text conversation was in college. And I didn’t have it this bad. Not even close.
What was that guy’s name again?
Oh, right. WHO CARES.
The thing is, when I read through the string of messages, I can hear Gavin’s voice in my head.
He’s saying everything with that low, sexy tone I have heard often enough to commit to memory.
It’s his conference room voice, what I think of as his alpha voice.
A bit on the fierce, serious side, though I picture him with smile number six, that utterly kissable one.
How am I going to look at him tonight?
How am I going to look at him at work ? Maybe I should call in sick. Except … Nancy already is sick.
“Um, Zo? You okay?”
Sam glances down at my leg, and for a tiny moment, I wonder if she has some kind of secret X-ray vision. Because, I swear, she knows .
I force a yawn and then give her a sheepish smile. “I’m fine! Sorry. Just … slow to wake up this morning.”
Her eyebrows twitch, but just when I think she’s about to say something about the telltale phone beating underneath my thigh, she smiles and shoves a plate toward me with a stack of crepes and a single lit candle. “Happy birthday, sunshine!”
Right. My birthday.
I sit up in bed, making sure my phone stays hidden under my leg. Because, of all the nosy roommates, Sam is the nosiest. And of all my roommates, Sam is the very last one I want knowing about my date—or non-date?—with Gavin tonight. I feel like she’s already on to me.
“Wow.” I take the plate, staring down at the crepes, which looked better from a distance. “This is … awesome.”
Sam sits down next to me and tucks her legs underneath her. “Yep. I had to make them because your favorite place isn’t open this early.”
“You made me crepes?”
“I know, right? I found a crepe recipe with three ingredients. One egg. One cup of flour. One cup of milk. Oh, and salt. Four ingredients. The flipping part was not so easy. Don't look in the trash.”
I blow out the candle so I don’t end up eating wax.
The crepes are a little crunchy looking, but they look edible.
Sam making crepes is like a dog walking around on only its front legs.
She’s the least domestic of all of us, and the least likely to go out of her way to do something like this.
Not that she isn’t nice … Sam is just very focused on Sam .
Which makes me instantly suspicious.
I could see Abby making me crepes (except she’s not awake yet) or even sweet Delilah, who performs acts of kindness with the enthusiasm with which some women collect shoes.
Even Harper, who we jokingly call Harpy for a reason, spends a lot of time in the kitchen.
I could see her making crepes. Except she’d probably ruin them with unpronounceable health-food ingredients.
And she’s still out running. The mornings I don’t join her, our three miles turns into five or more.
The point is: Sam doesn’t cook, and she isn’t really into thoughtful gifts.
Did she even remember my birthday last year?
Sam spends most of her waking hours either managing her persona, the famous Dr. Love, relationship advice columnist, or with her soon-to-be fiancé.
I love her, but there are times when I feel the slightest bit used.
I mean, she has legitimate emails that come in from strangers, but she also has gotten us to write fake letters with fake emails to give her more content.
Then there’s the book. I swallow, looking down at the crepes, which I strongly suspect are some kind of Trojan Horse.
I eat them, and then I owe her my firstborn child …
or just information about anything that happens between me and Gavin.
Now that there actually are details to share, this is more dangerous.
But they’re crepes . My mouth is practically watering and does not care at all about the danger. Or the fact that they look a tiny bit crispy. Nutella covers a multitude of mistakes. I take a big bite and silently pray I don’t regret it.
“These are delicious. Thank you!” I say around a mouthful.
“Good!” Sam continues to watch me eat. I’m starting to feel a little like a zoo animal.
“You’re not having any?”
“Nah. I don’t like sweet breakfasts.”
I resist the urge to check her pulse and see if she’s actually alive and not a cyborg. “Your loss.”
I keep eating. She keeps watching. The phone feels hotter and hotter under my leg. When it buzzes with an incoming text, both of our eyes fall to my lap.
What if it’s Gavin? What if it’s Gavin? What if it’s GAVIN?
“Are you going to check that?” Sam asks.
“Nope. It’s probably just my dad or Zane telling me happy birthday.”
“I don’t mind. You can check.”
I take another bite. “It’s fine. I’ll look later.”
Sam is so focused on watching the fork move from the plate to my mouth that I feel like I’m doing some kind of complicated brain surgery and she’s observing.
I set down the fork and turn to face her. “Sam. Not to look a gift crepe in the mouth, but I have to ask. What’s going on?”
Sam feigns mild outrage. And I know it’s not real, because I’ve seen Sam outraged. Like when she didn’t get the promotion she requested. Or when she gets the really nasty messages from people who hate Dr. Love.
She huffs. “What—I can’t make you crepes on your birthday?”
I raise an eyebrow and stare until she sighs and begins picking at the hem of her shirt.
“It’s just … well, I wanted to check in and see how things are going. At work. With your boss. Any new developments ?”
If she only knew the treasure trove of developments. Did she know? How coincidental was it that she was here, now, when just last night, Gavin and I jumped over the line that had always been drawn so clearly between us?
And tonight … well. I have no idea what to expect.
Is it a date? Is he actually interested the way his text implied? Tone is so hard to read in texts. But he was flirting. And he did invite himself to mini golf tonight.
This is the moment I’ve thought about, dreamed about, and tried to tell myself would never happen for two years. Two. Years. But it felt intangible, not like reality. A fantasy. Now that it’s here, I have no idea what to do with myself. My insides are like a half-baked cake, gooey and shapeless.
Yes, something is developing. But it’s way too soon to talk about it, and I’m definitely not talking to Sam about it. It would just end up as a chapter in her new book. I set the plate on my bedside table, suddenly feeling ill.
“He’s my boss. The end.”
I know I sound way too defensive, and I know Sam notices when I get up, sliding my phone from its hiding spot under my leg. I keep it tight against my body, just in case anything shows on the screen. Not suspicious at all.
“How does Gavin feel about you quitting?”
Why, oh why, did I tell my roommates about my self-imposed deadline? Oh, right. For accountability. Except now, that’s the last thing I want.
“Today was the day, right? When you said you’d turn in your letter of resignation?”
She keeps pressing, and it’s like the way Zane and I used to poke each other’s bruises as a sick sibling game. Except we were little kids. This feels so much more sensitive. Invasive, even. Yet Sam keeps poking.
Maybe I’m being rude now, grabbing my towel and shower caddy without answering. But Sam doesn’t get to just ply me with one of my favorite foods stuffed with one of my other favorite foods and then think she gets access to my feelings.
“Technically, if he isn’t your boss anymore, you guys could date,” she says, and maybe I snap just a little bit.
“Look, Sam. I don’t want to be in your book.”
Sam stands, looking hurt and tugging at her dark braid. I recognize the gesture because I’m dragging my hand over my hair even as I speak.
“You think I’m just here because of the book?”
“Aren’t you?” I say the words gently, but it doesn’t matter. They find their mark and the hurt turns to anger in Sam’s eyes.
“I’m here as your friend. We are friends, if you remember. I write real advice to real people. I help them. Sometimes you guys forget that. If something is happening with you and Gavin, I might actually have helpful advice for you.”
I lean back against the dresser. “So, the homemade crepes weren’t about getting a new chapter to your publisher?”
Sam throws up her hands. “Happy birthday, Zoey.” And with that, she’s gone, slamming the door behind her.
Unfortunately, the door slamming knocks the plate of remaining crepes from its precarious position on my table to the floor. Upside down on the white rug, of course.
Because nothing says Happy Birthday! like hurting your friend’s feelings and getting a Nutella stain on your white rug.
* * *
I’d like to say that things improved at work, but that wouldn’t be an accurate statement. At least, not by lunch time, when I finally escape to meet Abby at a nearby café.
First, the women in the office decided this year, for the first time, to acknowledge my birthday. Which might sound like a good thing, but it’s almost as though someone went out of their way to find out my dislikes.