Chapter 15 #4
Last week I was supposed to plant my vibrator somewhere Booker would find it, but I was so wound up, I had to use it first!
I know that’s not what Belle intended for me to do.
Now, not only am I pathetic, but I’ve catapulted myself up to proper hussy level, leaving used vibrators out like I’m living in some sort of battery-operated brothel.
But I was desperate. Good God, I’ve never had such an active libido in all my life!
This living with Booker Harris shit without having any slips is not my idea of a good time.
Thank goodness the wedding is Saturday because I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
Above all, I miss my old friend, and I wish we could just go to the bloody wedding together.
It’s too late now, though. I heard Booker on the phone with someone the other day, and it sounded like they were working out details for the big day. So when I saw Andrew at the gym yesterday, I secured him as my date for an “event,” a.k.a. Tanner and Belle’s wedding.
He was so excited, rambling on and on about what he should wear.
Then he asked me what I will be wearing, what colour it might be, and how something form-fitted would be great for my body type.
It was then that I realised Andrew likes boys.
Really feminine boys. He told me so after informing me that he’s a topper and then asked if there’d be any single, gay men at the event.
And since Andrew did such a top-notch job of over-sharing, I ended up confessing that I am in love with my best friend who’s now my flatmate. I told him about our history and how I was planning to use him to make Booker jealous.
God, I’m a pathetic cow.
Amazingly, Andrew was delighted. He said Scots know better than anyone how to make lads jealous.
So I think it’s safe to say I found myself a devoted wingman.
I’m thanking my lucky fucking stars for that because I don’t have a clue who Booker is bringing.
I can’t bring myself to ask because I don’t want to know.
She’ll probably be stunning and tall with legs up to her ears.
I’ll immediately regret this entire fucked-up plan that Dr. Love roped me in to.
It’s almost ten o’clock when I return home from work.
I walk in and find Booker scrounging around the kitchen.
Before making my presence known, I take a moment to appreciate the simple beauty of him.
He’s reaching up to the top shelf of an open cupboard, and a sliver of smooth, olive skin shows between the gap of his dark green T-shirt and his faded jeans that are quickly becoming my favourite.
I want to run my hand along his skin so badly, I have to make a fist.
“Hello,” I say with an exhale.
He pauses his stretch and looks over his shoulder at me. “Hiya.”
“What are you doing?” I ask, dropping my keys on the kitchen table.
He turns and tugs on his earlobe. “I was looking for something to eat. We have nothing.”
I nod. “Yeah, it’s been a busy week. I was planning to go to the supermarket tomorrow.”
“I can go with you,” he says, looking hopeful.
“I’d like that,” I reply.
His kind smile reveals his perfect dimples and it relaxes my troubled soul. It’s been so strained between us. The sexual tension competing with our friendship has made it impossible to have any sort of relationship.
“Want to go for a walk and grab a bite?” I ask, gesturing toward the door. “I passed a food truck a few roads back that smelled divine. They had kebabs.”
He half smiles, the dimple on his cheek so cute I want to reach out and touch it. “Yeah, that sounds perfect. Let’s go.”
I run to change out of my work clothes, sliding on a pair of skinny jeans, some flats, and a T-shirt. I’m ruffling my hair when I stride out of my room and find Booker waiting at the door for me. We both smile and make our way downstairs.
As we walk, we discuss what it’s like living in East London.
It’s such a slower pace over here than the more heavily toured west London.
And it’s diverse. From Americans to French, Bangladeshi to Eastern Europeans, you find all types of people walking the stunning mural-painted streets.
The neighbourhood is built up with old industrial buildings teeming with a cool multicultural art scene.
It’s invigorating. I can see how perfect this area is for Booker.
The tranquility allows him to live his life and focus on football without the hustle and bustle of proper London. He looks at home here.
We stride up to the Turkish kebab truck and argue over what we should order. We both want the same thing, but we want the other to get something different so we can sample each other’s. Booker relents and gets the chicken while I get the lamb.
I do a little victory dance as we wait for our order. A homeless man sitting on the ground sees my moves and begins laughing at me.
“Don’t encourage her,” Booker groans with a rueful smile that he’s doing a crap job at executing.
The man holds up a finger, so we watch him while he rustles around his pile of belongings. My jaw drops when he produces a golden trumpet. He presses the mouthpiece to his lips and begins playing some sort of bouncy jazz number.
My eyes are wide and my smile is huge as I turn to Booker like this is the best moment of my life. I thrust my hands in the air and wiggle my butt over to the talented musician, ready to get lost in the music for a bit.
Poppy’s moves aren’t sexy in the least bit.
But her smile could light up all of London.
She’s like sunshine no matter what time of day it is.
She wildly shakes her hair out over her face with her hands above her head as she dances along with the homeless gentleman.
Even the passersby can’t help but smile at the silly scene.
She looks like a bouncing little girl trapped in the body of a beautiful woman.
I lean on a small tree and watch. Blue and red lights pour down on her from the busy pub next door. People inside are drinking and partying, using the pub to facilitate a fun night out, whereas all Poppy needs is a friendly face and a little music.
This is probably one of my favourite things about her. She’s confident enough to start dancing anywhere she feels like, onlookers be damned.
The food truck worker hollers, “Hallo!” He’s holding our two kebabs and frowning at Poppy. “She not very good dencer,” he says in a thick Turkish accent.
I laugh and then laugh some more. “No…No, she’s not. But she’s something, isn’t she?”
He shrugs and hands me the food. I stride over to her, meat-sticks in hand.
“Dance with me, Booker!” she sings.
“I’ve got the food.” I shake them at her as if she can’t see them plain as day.
“Who cares? Kebabs are street food, historically made for dancing. It’s probably in some literature somewhere.” She shimmies over to me and grabs one stick out of my hand. Then she takes my newly freed hand in hers and spins herself under my arm.
I stand there with a straight face as she continues using me to dance. “I’m just a prop to you, aren’t I?”
She bites a chunk of pineapple off the stick.
“Mmmhmm,” she giggles and chews the food, wiping the bit that drizzles down her chin.
“Because surely you can’t dance. You never danced with me when we were kids even though I always begged you.
Mr. Dull and Painfully Boring, this one.
” She sighs heavily, a naughty glint in her eyes that eggs me on.
I shake my head at her because I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s trying to goad me into performing for her like a puppet. And I don’t fucking care.
Two can play at this game.
I hand her my kebab, and she jumps up and down with a squeal of delight over what she doesn’t even know is coming. I bounce my head to the beat and the trumpeter gets louder. I inhale deeply before diving down on the ground to do the worm dance, repeating the smooth body roll over and over.
Poppy’s shocked, gut-spitting laughter is so worth the bruises this will leave on my hip bones tomorrow.
She’s never seen me do this move before because I didn’t learn how to do it until several years ago when Tanner wanted me in on a goal celebration.
We had it all planned out. And when he scored a goal, he soared like a bird all the way across the field to me, where I was doing the worm.
Then he did a dive-bomb on me, like a bird devouring a worm.
We looked ridiculous.
Naturally, it was replayed on sports networks for weeks.
I spring up to my feet and cross my arms over my chest for a brief b-boy pose before reaching out for my kebab like nothing happened. Poppy is buckled over laughing. Once she contains herself, she gives me a hearty round of applause with several whoops of cheering.
Smiling, I dig a note out of my pocket and toss a tenner in the man’s trumpet case. His brows lift as he keeps playing, and Poppy pauses to look straight into the musician’s eyes as she says, “Thank you for the music.”
He nods a musical thank you and away we go with our street food.
We walk for a few minutes, silently eating before Poppy touches my arm. “Thank you as well,” she says reverently, looking up at me as we head toward our flat. “For the food and the dancing and the music.”
I look at her in wonder as she thoughtfully picks at her kebab.
Poppy is quite possibly the most appreciative person I know.
Even when we were younger, I remember her thanking me all the time.
And it didn’t matter if it was for something as simple as helping her up off the ground when she tripped, which she did a lot.
She always made sure we connected eyes before she thanked me.
Here she is again, being so quintessentially Poppy and acting like truck food and a street musician is a night at the theatre.
I shrug. “See now, if you never lived with me, you never would have had the opportunity to dance on a London sidewalk at ten o’clock at night with a meat-stick in your hand.”
She beams and pulls a piece off. “So true, Booker. I love it here. I hope I love Hoxton just as much.”
The thought of her leaving in a month brings an uneasiness to my chest. “We can see if my building has any openings if you’d like.”
“Sick of me already?” she exclaims in horror.
“No…Actually, I was thinking Hoxton seems a bit too far away.” I can feel her eyes on me, so I grab a bite to avoid her penetrative gaze.
“Hoxton is only a mile away, you nutter!” I shrug, but she does a little twirl and continues. “You won’t want me around in a month anyway. You’ll be ready for some space.”
I stop her from doing another spin and wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her to me.
The fragrance of her perfume is faint this late at night but still present.
“I’ll never need space from you, Pop.” I kiss the top of her head and let my arm rest on her shoulder as I pull a bite off my stick.
She nuzzles into me, probably because she’s cold. But I can’t stop myself from thinking how right this feels. How natural and normal. Safe and comfortable. I like having her with me again. I don’t want to think about her leaving.
“The big wedding day will be here soon,” she says, a sad tone to her voice.
I nod. “Yep.”
“Are you excited?” she asks, her voice curious.
“Of course,” I state noncommittally, pursing my lips off to the side, deep in thought.
Truthfully, I’m really not excited. I’m happy for Tanner and Belle, but this whole having to bring a date thing is starting to bother me a lot more than I realised.
I don’t even know who Poppy’s bringing. I can’t bring myself to ask.
And she’s not asking me, so there’s a big elephant in the room that neither of us is discussing.
I hate it.
I hate not knowing things about Poppy. It never bothered me when we were younger. I had girlfriends. She probably had some boyfriends. We never talked about it and it never got to me.
Now, things are different. Somehow, we’ve changed. Poppy is my oldest and dearest friend in the world, yet this is something I can’t talk to her about. And I’m terrified of what that means.