Chapter Seven Never Underestimate the Power of Friendship #2
“Those sound like dates to me. So who is he?”
“He lives in New York. His name is Hart. He’s ...” Just say it fast—it’s like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Twenty-five.”
“ Woooo. ” She makes a low whistling sound. “I don’t even remember being twenty-five.”
I laugh and pull a throw pillow into my lap, needing something to hold on to. “Believe me, I barely do either.”
“What kind of name is that ... Hart?” she asks, looking uncertain about it. “Is it short for something?”
To me it feels very complete, strong, but also soft. “It is. Hartford .” I pronounce the word slowly. “Hartford Fitzgerald Winthrop. His family ...”
“I know who the Winthrops are. Holy ... wow. That’s ... crazy.”
“ That’s the part you find crazy?” I give her a deadpan look. “Our age difference is insane, Scar.”
She shrugs. “Men do it all the time and wouldn’t think twice about it.”
Her flat-out acceptance of this surprises me. I expected questions, maybe even to be scolded for being so foolish.
“Plus, you’re hot as hell.”
Not. I scrunch my nose.
“You are,” she insists.
“But knowing that I want to get married and have babies—sooner rather than later—don’t you think it’d be irresponsible to waste my time on a fling with someone like him?”
She pauses, weighing my words. “Well, that depends. Is it a fling, or is it something more?”
With Hart, I’m sure there’s a difference. I tried to run away from him twice, tried to cancel our plans, and he insisted. He has a way of getting under my skin like no one else has before. He can be very persuasive.
“A fling, obviously.”
She smiles then, rubbing her belly. “Good. No feelings. Just fun. As the resident old, fat, married lady, I am one hundred percent in support of this fling. As long as you report back often with all the good details.”
I roll my eyes. “You got it. And you are not fat.”
She brushes me off. “Just do me a favor and actually let yourself enjoy the ride for once.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I blink at her.
Scarlet scoffs. “Have you met you? You’re not exactly a stop-and-smell-the-roses type of person. You’re responsible to a fault.”
I open my mouth to protest before realizing she’s right.
I’m usually too busy anticipating the consequences to have fun.
At my first frat party in college, I was too worried about getting busted for underage drinking to actually enjoy myself.
During my first big job, I was too responsible to spend my paycheck on the things I wanted, and allotted most of it to my savings account.
Is this what I do? Plan and worry myself to death.
She puts her feet up on the coffee table in front of us. “I hate to be rude, but I am beat.”
I shake my head. “You are not rude—I’m sure you need to rest. And I’m going to go. I’ve got to get to an appointment, and then I’m going to have dinner with my parents later.”
Scarlet’s eyes drift closed. “You go have fun; I’m going to nap right here.”
I smile at her. “Love you.”
She cracks one eyelid. “Love you more.”
After dinner, back at home, I change into pajamas and pour myself a glass of wine.
My conversation with Scarlet is still playing through my mind.
I thought she would caution me about getting involved with Hart, but she didn’t.
He’s not a suitable choice for me, but she was all for me having some fun.
And something tells me it would be fun. He’s extremely attractive, and he’s easy to talk to.
Maybe I don’t need a husband to have kids. I could adopt. Sandra Bullock did it, and she’s awesome. Come to think of it, so did Sheryl Crow. I love her music. Tuesday Night Music Club is a classic.
Curling up on the couch, I had just grabbed the remote to contemplate the options on Netflix when my phone rings.
Hart’s name is on the screen.
Scarlet’s words flash through my brain. She encouraged me to enjoy the ride, because apparently I’m terrible at enjoying myself. I press the button to answer his call.
“Hello?”
I hear music in the background and people laughing.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.” I smile. “Where are you?”
“New York,” he says. “Having a few friends over to my apartment.”
Someone shouts a curse word.
Hart chuckles. “That’s my friend Whit. He’s being an ass. I’m sorry. Let me step outside where it’s quieter.”
“That’s okay, you don’t—”
I pause when I hear his friend call out, “Get off the damn phone, Fitzy!”
“Did he just call you Fitzy?”
Hart chuckles. “It’s a nickname. My friends call me Fitz when I’m drunk. My great-great-grandfather Fitzgerald was known to have a drinking problem.”
I’m not sure if that’s meant to be funny, but I find it kind of ... odd .
“Are you drunk?”
“Little bit,” he says, chuckling.
“Okay. Well, I’m going to let you go. You have fun with your friends.”
“Wait,” he says. I hear footsteps, and he must be heading somewhere quieter, more private, because all the noise of the party dies away.
“You never answered my text.”
“Which text?”
“The one where I asked when I would see you again.”
A shiver runs through me. I honestly forgot—sort of—that he’d sent that; it was before I even left London. A lot has happened since then.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I’m in California for a while.” I don’t mention my planned trip back to Nairobi next month or that it’s possible for me to connect through New York then.
“I’m going to be in California in two weeks,” he says. “For a visit to my grandparents’ winery in Napa. You should come spend the weekend with me.”
My heart begins to pound. An entire weekend together in wine country?
“Alessia?”
“Yes?”
“Will you come?”
“Can I think about it?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Go have fun with your friends.”
“Okay. Good night, Alessia.”