Chapter 4 #2
Read: Do you have plans for tonight?
“Hell no,” the words hissed out, and I flung the phone to the far end of the couch like it had burned me.
A door clicked down the hall.
“Sorry!” Candace rounded the corner, towel-drying her hair, steam billowing behind her. “I needed to rinse off last night.”
“How’re you feeling?” I asked, grabbing the distraction with both hands.
“It was a rough morning,” she admitted. “But the shower helped.”
She was doing what she always did—deflecting, distracting, throwing herself into my problems instead of facing hers. I let her. For now.
“Good.” A grin. “I asked Susan to make squid-ink pasta tonight.”
Her head snapped up. “No, you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Hell yes.” She pressed her palms to her cheeks, dragging them down in disbelief. “That dish gives me life.”
“And stains our teeth like swamp creatures,” I added.
Something settled between us, easy and familiar. Then, at the same time:
“Documentary,” we said, in unison.
We both cracked up.
“Portrait of a Heist?” I suggested. It had been sitting on our list for months.
She pointed a finger at me. “Fine, but if there aren’t forged Picassos and drama, I’m out.”
“Is a brooding museum director with a secret agenda acceptable?”
“Sold.”
She hopped onto a barstool, twisting the towel on her head, mischief breaking across her face. “Now that that’s settled, we can talk about who you were messaging.”
“Ugh—” I froze. “I wasn’t.”
She gave me a look. “Emma. Your phone’s halfway to witness protection—that’s some next-level boy-texted-me energy.”
“No—” I started, but she was already lunging. I met her halfway, but she was faster, smacking my hand aside. I snatched it back on instinct—then yelped when she landed a playful kick to my hip.
“Jesus, Candace! That hurt.”
“That’s your fault for fighting me,” she said, entirely unbothered.
She scanned the thread with predatory focus.
“Okay,” she announced. “We have work to do.”
Dread pooled low. “Please don’t message him.”
“Why not?”
I blanched, then blurted, “He was going to ask me on a date.”
“No, Emma,” she said, dry as dust. “He was making what normal people call conversation.”
“I—he—”
“Oh, sweetie. You’re adorable when you panic.”
Her thumbs flew.
Read: Do you have plans for tonight?
Candace-as-me: Nothing much. Just eating squid-ink pasta and watching a documentary with my best friend.
“Delete it!” I demanded, grappling for the device.
She won again. “If he’s scared off by pasta and culture, he’s not your guy.”
It lit up.
Her expression sharpened. “Oh, he replied.”
She cleared her throat like a poet taking the stage. “‘A documentary?’“ she started, her voice dropping to the lowest pitch she could manage. “‘Which one? I happen to be a connoisseur.’”
She whistled in appreciation. “Connoisseur,” she echoed, tone returning to normal. “He’s an intellectual.”
“That is a normal word,” I said flatly.
“Sure.” A knowing look. “Spoken like someone trying very hard not to be impressed.” Her expression turned feline.
Candace-as-me: Portrait of a Heist. Something about a brooding museum director and an all-female art heist.
“There.” She dropped it into my lap. “You’re now in a conversation. You’re welcome.”
I grimaced as it buzzed again.
Read: A documentary about women committing elegant fraud. Say less. What’s it streaming on?
I looked to Candace, who was making a dramatic keep-going motion with her hand.
Me: Netflix.
Read: Damn. I just unsubscribed last month after they did another three-dollar hike—capitalist greed at its finest.
A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Candace noticed instantly, perking up. Then a metallic clink drew her attention to the kitchen, utensils against ceramic and garlic sizzling in oil.
I inhaled, letting it fill my lungs. “That smells glorious,” I called.
A muffled, “What?”
Candace cupped her hands. “She said it smells glorious!”
“Thank you!” Susan sang back.
“I’ll fetch the wine,” Candace announced, winking. “Leave you two alone.”
“The Orin Swift is a good option!” Susan called after her.
“Oh, now you can hear!” Candace shot back.
The room quieted. Back to the screen.
Say something human, not desperate, I ordered myself, mind blanking.
Another notification.
Read: I’ve resubscribed and am ready to go.
He… what? I read it three times, just to be sure.
Me: You really resubscribed just to watch art fraud?
Read: I appreciate elegance in all its forms. I did try to find squid-ink pasta delivery but failed… miserably.
My lips twitched.
Me: I appreciate the effort.
Read: Good. Let me know when you both start—I wouldn’t want to miss out.
I paused, pulling back. Twenty-three minutes of messages and we were… co-watching?
My mind was still trying to grasp the concept as Candace returned, dropping beside me on the couch with two glasses of Bordeaux like victory flags. “Status?”
“He redownloaded Netflix and wants to watch the documentary with us.”
Her face lit up, bright enough to fill the room. “Oh, he’s in it.” She stepped back on her stage. “Emma Sinclair—captivating men in under ten messages.”
“Please stop saying words.”
“No chance. Netflix, pasta, criminal documentaries—there it is: your love language.”
Susan rounded the corner with two steaming bowls. “Try not to wear dinner,” she warned. “Ink forgives no one.”
“What makes you think we’re not professionals?” I teased, taking mine.
Her brow arched. “I’ve seen you eat spaghetti.”
We both gasped, feigning offense.
“Did you zest lemon?” Candace asked, breathing deeply as Susan headed back toward the kitchen.
“Please,” Susan called over her shoulder. “I’m not an amateur.”
We sank into the couch, bowls cradled in our hands. The TV flickered to life—grainy Parisian galleries, a gravel-voiced narrator aged in smoke. The glow caught the swirl of inked noodles, glinting off the dark sauce.
Me: We just hit play.
Read: Perfect. I made a sandwich, and I’m settling in. Is this narrated by Attenborough? I thought he only did animal docs.
I fought back a grin, hiding it behind a monstrous bite of pasta.
Me: Equally surprised—but I’m glad he’s branching out.
I typed one-handed, juggling pasta and Read while women in tailored coats smuggled forged masterpieces through dimly lit corridors as the film found its rhythm.
Read: Is it me, or does that curator look like he hasn’t slept since the Impressionist era?
Me: He’s probably hiding a stolen Monet and three emotional-support secrets.
Read: Tragic men with impeccable taste. A classic combination.
My mouth betrayed me, curving before I could stop it.
Candace arched an eyebrow. “How’s the boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I shot back, tucking the phone between my legs.
“Mm-hm. And this is not my third glass,” she quipped, the wine sloshing as she waved it.
I rolled my eyes and turned back to the screen.
Read: Did the narrator just call forgery “a tender act of rebellion?”
Me: He did. And he might have a point.
Read: You approve of crime?
A tiny bit of sauce splattered on my shirt. I licked it off, eager to hide the evidence before Susan could ridicule me.
Me: Only elegant ones.
Read: Jesus, I messaged a criminal.
My lips twitched as I typed.
Me: That’s your fault, not mine.
Read: And I’d make the same mistake again. I’m enjoying our conversation.
My pulse jumped, my fingers typing before I could second-guess myself.
Me: I am, too.