Chapter 35 – “Even Better Than The Real Thing” — U2 #2
Kait puts her hand on my arm and squeezes before she insists I answer it. “It might be an emergency.”
I doubt it, but she’ll keep calling. She knows I don’t have much of a life, and she worries about me for some reason.
“Hey, Saoirse.” This has Kait’s full attention instantly. “Is everything okay?”
“Henry, we need to go shopping,” she says, as though this is worth four calls in a row. “Your closet is a disaster.”
“It’s not. It’s a freaking homage to your retail therapy, funded by my credit card,” I retort, irritated. “My closet has a spreadsheet to track its contents.” It’s a constant battle to keep things I actually like wearing out of the donation bin and in said closet.
“Henryyyyyyyyy.”
“Okay, fine, let me know when. I’m in town for at least the next three weeks and available for your shopping addiction needs.”
“Where are you?” she asks, nosy as always. “It’s noisy.”
“The Other Bean, why?”
“You sound happy. Are you okay?” She’s concerned about me sounding happy? Weird.
“I’m fine. I’ve got to go. I’m having coffee with, uh, with a friend.
” Kait winks at me, a salacious one that implies yes, I should call off work today.
I text Julian to say that I’m not coming in at all—cough cough—while I pretend to care about whatever Saoirse’s saying about the state of my wardrobe.
“Is it a female?”
“Yes, she is, in fact, a she. We can talk later. I’ve got to go.”
“I haven’t heard you sound happy for a long time, Henry.”
“I know,” I say, trying to be patient but wanting to get back to Kait. “Please don’t throw any of my clothes away. I need to go. Talk later, ShaSha.”
Kait perks up. If she were a puppy, she’d be wagging so hard. “That was Saoirse?” I nod. “I want to meet her, and Julian too.”
“I would love to introduce you,” I say, and I mean it. Just not today. I want to keep her to myself a little longer.
We chat. Or she chats, and I hang on every word, watching her expressions as her lips move, and count my blessings.
And try to steer the conversation back to where she may have been getting ready to say she loves me, too, until the entryway door opens and closes, bringing in a cold draft and a faint cloud of No.
1 Imperial Majesty perfume, Saoirse’s go-to Christmas wish list item.
“Oh, fuck me,” I mutter and hide my face behind a small tea blend menu from the table. Kait laughs at my pathetic disguise in confusion until the cashmere fashionista arrives at our table.
“Saoirse, what an unexpected and unpleasant surprise. Remind me not to tell you where I am the next few hundred times we talk.”
“Henrrhoid, you’re so sweet,” she says, poking me hard in the arm with a long red fingernail. “I was planning on updating your closet inventory, but I can’t get past you having four of the same Tom Ford tie. Gorgeous, but I’m going to send at least two of them to the resale shop.”
Kait and I both protest, “No!”
“Those are my lucky ties,” I say, which sounds stupid. Aside from wearing one to Kait’s big art opening here at the Bean, they’ve been resting in the box Kait sent them in for months. I didn’t have the strength to look at them every day but couldn’t bear to part with them.
Suspicious, Saoirse turns her focus to Kait. When I don’t introduce her, she thrusts out her hand to shake, knowing it would be terrible manners on my part not to introduce her.
“Kaitlin, this is my sister, Saoirse. Saoirse, Kaitlin.”
Kait doesn’t jump up to hug Saoirse; she looks at me with a big question in her eyes.
“Kaitlin, it’s lovely to meet you. Pardon my extraordinary rudeness while I steal my brother away.” She glares at me, then looks at Kait with a smile. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”
Saoirse beams her brightest, highest-wattage Sterling smile at her.
What is far less attractive is the way she literally takes me by the ear and drags me ten feet away.
Black glasses is outright staring at her, which happens a lot, but what isn’t typical is the woman who brings her miniature dog every morning leans to hear better.
Even Duncan is listening, his hand still on the fancy coffee machine, instead of making a loud blast of steam.
“I can’t with you, Henry Benedict. What the fuck are you playing at?”
I’ve done nothing, and yet here we are, with Tyson-level ear damage pending. If I see teeth, I’m fighting back.
“I, nothing? Let go of my ear, Sha?” I’m 1,050 percent sure we aren’t far enough away from my bat-eared Kait, who would diagnose my mood from the way my sheets rustled by phone.
If we are, the rest of the audience can fill her in.
I don’t have to look to know their noses are poking into our conversation.
It would be hilarious if it weren’t so embarrassing.
“Henry, it’s not fair to Kaitlin that you are madly in love with a woman named Kait and fucked it up so badly you can’t find her.”
My face is heating; even my ears feel hot. Please don’t let Kait hear this. I peek at her, but I can’t tell.
Saoirse keeps going. “People with Kait-derived names are not interchangeable cogs. Find the one you lost, give up, move on or don’t, but don’t torture the unsuspecting Kaitlins of Chicagoland with your fuckery.
” My mortification grows with every word.
Even soy London fog vanilla syrup is listening now.
I steal a glance at Kait, who is avoiding my eyes, but her lips are curved into a smile as she plays on her phone. Is she secretly pleased?