Chapter Four #2
“I kind of like the idea of a Dirty Diana vibrator for couples,” I counter. “Couples that are new or couples that are reconnecting…”
Petra chuckles. “ We get it. You’re back with Oliver.”
“We are not. Not really. It’s not just about Oliver. It’s about our story. A backward love story.”
“What does that have to do with Dirty Diana and vibrators?”
“I’m Diana. So.” I blush a deep pink.
—
At lunchtime, I knock on Liam’s open door, but he doesn’t hear with his headphones on.
Or at least, pretends not to hear. Inside, it’s dimly lit but surprisingly tidy.
The only mess is a torn-open bag of Razzles spilled across his desk.
He tosses out the yellow ones and snacks on the rest as he types.
I knock again, and this time he looks up. He pulls off his headphones, his hair a mess of curls in every direction. I take this as an invitation to enter.
“I have to head out soon so this is your only chance to get me to Panchos. I promise to stop talking about the hair we found in our salsa last time. We leave in ten seconds or we never go again.”
Liam barely cracks a smile but grabs his keys. At least for the moment, he’s counting my burrito offer as a satisfactory apology.
—
“Let me talk about it in a way you can understand.” Only Liam can both mansplain to me and charm me at the same time. Before our food has even arrived, he is once again pitching me on why we should try creating a Dirty Diana fantasy on film. “For example, say Lululemon puts out a special legging….”
“Is that what you think I am? A Lululemon mom?”
“You’re wearing Lululemon right now.”
“These are L’Wren’s. I wear her hand-me-downs.”
“No offense, D. But own it.”
“They do last forever…”
“Okay. Fine. Different example. Tiny’s Milk & Cookies. What Texan doesn’t love Tiny’s? You would think they would have a lot of different types of cookies, right? They don’t. They stick to what they know.”
“Exactly my point,” I say.
“Hang on. They’re famous for their chocolate chip but they also have coffee. And ice cream. Pastries. But they’re known for their cookie.”
“My point again. What am I missing?”
“They can’t survive on the chocolate chip cookies alone,” Liam says. “So they just introduced their ginger cookie after years of development. And that shit has been sold out for months. I can’t even get one.”
“Neither can I.”
“The ginger cookie is video. The coffee is your paintings. The ice cream is the vibrator collab. When sharks stop swimming, they die. We have to continue to expand.”
“Sharks? That’s your metaphor?”
“If you want to keep growing…”
“We are growing. Our fans love the fantasies.”
“And for a while, the chocolate chip cookie was enough for Tiny’s.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Will you?”
“I promise.” He studies my expression until he’s satisfied I’m telling the truth.
“Good. Now lay it on me.” He takes a sip of his water. “I know I’m in trouble.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He doesn’t pretend not to know what I’m talking about.
He would never do that to me. “Right after I proposed—and after I got over the shock that Kirby actually said yes—part of me thought it would be better for you, and for L’Wren, if I told her first. Your friendship has been on kind of weird, shaky ground and I thought maybe if she had a secret this time around, something you had no idea about, she might feel kind of powerful and, I don’t know, more forgiving of you? ”
“Oh.” Our server sets down our iced tea and I take a long, cold sip. “Dammit. That is a good reason. Perceptive.” I narrow my eyes at him, trying to decide if he’s being completely honest. “Too perceptive?”
He holds my gaze and then breaks into a grin, his mirth blossoming. “It worked, right? You two are right as rain again.”
“L’Wren called you already?”
“She texted me to say thank you. Inviting you to tennis may have been my idea.”
“Oh. Well, thank you. But…” I smooth the napkin in my lap. “I get the sense you didn’t want to tell me at all.”
Liam exhales, long and slow, blows the perfect brown curls from his forehead. “I guess that’s the other part. Telling L’Wren I was engaged was easy. I know how much she likes Kirby. I’m marrying up and L’Wren would be the first to think it. But you…”
“I like Kirby too.”
“I know.”
“I would have been happy for you. I am happy for you.”
“But…”
“But nothing. I would have had a perfectly normal reaction to your news.”
“Uh-huh.” He nods slowly, as if to say go on so I do.
“A perfectly normal reaction, which probably for normal people would include some bit of concern.”
“See? This is what I was trying to avoid.”
“Liam. You haven’t been dating that long. You’re both so young. You’ve never even lived on your own.” He flinches like I’ve pinched him. “Sometimes it’s hard to be sure with all that working against you.”
Our food arrives and Liam dives into his burrito. He swallows a big bite before he says, “I am sure. I wouldn’t have asked her if I wasn’t sure.”
“Of course. I just mean, look at my own wobbly, house-of-cards relationship with Oliver. Even when you think you know someone, you might not really know someone.”
“Kirby and I don’t keep secrets from each other.”
This time I flinch. “Fine. Maybe not secrets. But you don’t know how she’s going to react in important situations.
Time is really all that can tell you that.
Time around each other. In every situation.
Like what if you pass a car accident and she doesn’t want to slow down to help because you’re late for something or—”
“I should have waited for us to stumble onto a car wreck before I proposed?”
Liam’s defensiveness only makes me dig in harder. “No, Liam. But you haven’t even lived with each other yet.”
“I’m in love.”
“And that’s not necessarily enough.”
“When did you become so anti-romantic?”
“I don’t know?” I pick at the bored and wilted salad on my plate. “It just happens?”
“I really like you, Diana. Obviously. And I don’t mean to be an asshole”—here it comes and I deserve it—“but Kirby and I are nothing like you and Oliver.”
Even though I braced myself, the punch still lands. “I didn’t say you were.”
“We trust each other. We’ve trauma-dumped.
Like a lot. She knows all about my shitty relationship with my mom and I know all about her anxiety and everything she’s afraid of, like Pomeranians and the sound of a dishwasher at night in an empty house.
” He speaks faster now, emphatically, without taking a breath, “And honestly, deep down, if I picture driving by a car wreck with her, I don’t give a fuck whether or not she stops to help.
Or even slows down. Because really, as long as she calls 911, I think we’re good.
” He takes a stab at his burrito with a fork.
“And I do believe she would call 911. Okay?”