Sin With Me

20

Kat jumps up, throws her arms around my neck, and starts to sob all over me. Hugging me tightly, she wails, “Why didn’t you ever f*****g tell us this before, you f*****g selfish goddamn t**t?”

I have to smile. When Kat gets emotional her paper-thin logical side flies out the window and she starts to curse like a drunken sailor and emote all over the place.

“Gee, I don’t know,” I say, my face smashed into her boobs. “Couldn’t be anything to do with the reaction I knew I’d get.”

“Oh, Gracie. Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”

Now I’ve got Chloe on my other side, hugging me and crying into my hair.

I feel like someone should be filming this for a PMS commercial.

“Oh, stop you two. You’re ruining my silk blouse.” I gently push them away. They sit, their wet faces and big, weepy eyes so depressing I have to down the contents of my glass in one gulp.

Jesus, women are high maintenance.

“My point of telling you this isn’t to make you feel sorry for me, but to try to get you to accept that the house in the suburbs and the two point five babies and the man of my dreams isn’t in the cards for me. And that’s okay. I have a full life. I have a job I love.” I glance at them sourly. “And I have you two dimwits. Quite frankly, I think I’m luckier than most.”

Silence.

Then Kat bursts into tears again. Which of course makes Chloe join in.

“Oh for f**k’s sake.” I sigh, and pour myself another drink.

By the time I get back to my condo, I’m mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted. All I want to do is take a bath and a Xanax and crawl into bed. I drop my purse and keys on the console inside the door, flip on the lights, and go into my bedroom, where I notice the red light blinking on the answering machine. It’s a message from the concierge downstairs, saying they have a package waiting for me. I call down and tell them to send it up.

Five minutes later I’m staring at an enormous bouquet of white orchids in a crystal vase.

“What the hell?” I mutter, standing at the open door in my bare feet.

“Would you like me to put it anywhere in particular?” asks Sheridan, the night concierge, from behind the flowers. He’s a big guy, but the bouquet is even bigger. I can’t see his upper body.

“Sure, how about the dining room table?” I swing the door open wider and let him in.

Sheridan walks carefully forward, peering through the flowers, trying not to trip on any stray objects.

“Chair on your left,” I warn, just as he’s about to stumble into it.

“Thanks. This sucker’s huge.” He manages to get it to the dining room without breaking any body parts or furniture, and sets it down on the table with a grunt. Then he stands back and examines the flowers with his hands propped on his hips.

“Looks like you made a big impression on somebody, Miss Grace.”

“Or someone heard I died.”

Startled, Sheridan looks over at me.

“Only kidding.” My gallows humor doesn’t always go over.

I hand him five bucks and show him to the door. Once he’s gone, I open the white envelope attached to the flowers. It reads:

Grace,

Bring your date to my housewarming on Saturday. I need to get a look at the competition.

Yours,

Brody

PS – I’ve made a list of rebuttals to your arguments of why we shouldn’t date. It’s pretty detailed but I’ll give you a little preview of #17, in response to your assertion that it would be awkward if it didn’t work out between us due to the inevitability we’d be forced to see each other because of the relationships of our mutual friends:

No one has to know.

PPS – I can’t stop thinking about you. I might need to seek therapy. Know any good therapists?

PPPS – I know you can’t stop thinking about me, either. If it feels like this now . . .

He leaves the rest unwritten, but the meaning is clear. If it feels like this now, before we’ve even touched—except for a brief, closed-mouthed kiss that I quickly ended—what would it feel like if I actually gave in and we got together?

“Like trouble,” I say aloud to the empty room.

Cocky son of a bitch. He signed it with a scribble, his phone number beneath. I hesitate for a moment, thinking, but then decide to call, thank him for the flowers, and offer another firm, polite refusal so this doesn’t go any further.

I mentally don my strongest, steeliest armor and dial his number from my cell.

He answers after two rings with a sleepy, “Hello?”

“Hello, Brody,” I say briskly, all business. “This is Grace. I’m calling to say thank—”

“Grace. Do I know a Grace?” he muses, his voice low, scratchy, and full of mischief. “Lemme think. Describe what you look like.”

“Ha-ha. You know exactly what I look like. As I was saying, I’m calling to—”

“Are you the Grace with the hump back and the hairy wart on the end of her nose?”

“What? No! Of course not!”