The Love in Duet Collection, page 26
I shoot her a sympathetic smile. “Few too many late nights dissecting dead bodies?” I shudder reflexively, then hold up a hand. “Wait. Don’t tell me.”
“Good. Because I don’t think you want to know what they make us do in anatomy class.”
“You’re right. I don’t.”
“But I’m learning tons,” she says with a familiar bright smile. Abby has always come to life in the classroom. Learning is her jam. She rattles off some of the topics she’s studying, and it’s all well over my head, but I nod and say it sounds great.
“But try to get some rest now and then.”
“I will, but in the meantime, if you want to give me any suggestions for new night creams that you’ve found, that would be awesome.”
“What makes you think I use night cream? I’m naturally handsome and glowing.”
“Oh, please. I bet you have a bag full of lotions and potions.”
“Hasn’t anyone told you it’s not nice to lie about your older brother?”
She winks. “I won’t tell anyone. C’mon. I know all those face-cream companies send you samples. I read your columns on grooming tips.”
“Learn anything interesting?”
She mimes stroking a beard. “Why, yes. A recent one was interesting: Never forget that a shower always comes first. If you have time for only one grooming ritual, keep it basic—soap and water, rather than mustache or beard oil. But are there truly men who don’t realize that?”
“Abby, have you met men? Wait. Don’t answer that. I know you’re a celibate nun-slash-doctor-in-training. And yes. Men’s advice columns are ridiculously popular because, wait for it, men need advice, even of the most basic sort.”
“Can’t argue with you on that. What’s the latest with you? Are you still the champion of the Manhattan dating scene?”
I pretend to preen, sitting taller. “Naturally. I received an award last week to that effect.” I reach behind me, out of sight of the computer’s camera, and grab a trophy then thrust the cheap blue-and-gold statue in front of the screen. “Impressed now, are you?”
She laughs. “You actually have a trophy. That’s adorable, but what on earth did you do to earn that? Did you join a kickball league? Nab first place in a pie-baking contest?”
I heave an aggrieved sigh. “I can’t believe you’re mocking my pie skills when you were the recipient of all the amazing ones I made as we were growing up.”
She smiles, and it lights up the whole damn screen. “It was rather sweet, watching you help Mum bake and then test them on me.”
“You ate anything.”
“Could you blame me? The two of you could cook. Steak and bacon, chicken and bacon, shepherd’s pie with bacon added because bacon is the best thing ever invented. My stomach is rumbling just thinking of it.”
I cringe. “Bacon, so much bacon. All those years helping her turned me off it. I can barely stomach any meat these days. Fish or bust, I say.”
“Not me. I plan to marry steak. And then date pork and flirt with ham on the side,” Abby says with a dreamy look, as if she’s floating on a whiff of something delicious.
This little turkey loved the meat pies. I’d help Mum bake them, Abby would test them, and Dad would declare them delicious. All was well for years. My parents had an idyllic marriage, or so I thought. So my mum thought, too, until seven years ago. Abby was eighteen, I was twenty-three, and Dad, the bastard, said he’d fallen madly in love with somebody else. It’s no big deal! You kids have left home, and it’s time for me to follow my true heart.
His true heart had a surprise in store for him. After he tied the knot with the other woman, he went about his new life with no regard for any of us, including his ailing mum, and finally lost all the money he’d set aside to help Abby with med school. Turned out his new wife’s true heart was located in his wallet, and she knew how to pry his savings right out of him.
Love is such a ridiculous emotion. It can mess with your head and your life and your entire family.
Abby didn’t ask me to pay her way through medical school. She’d planned to take out loans, but I’ve seen some of my friends strapped with huge debt, and I was in a position where I could likely earn what she needed faster than she could pay it back.
I pat the trophy proudly. “I’ll have you know this was the jujitsu tournament I did with Truly earlier this summer. Came in first place in the men’s, and she was first in the ladies.’ Guess you’re not the only overachiever in the family. But speaking of medical school, I’m really interested in knowing if you’ve learned yet how the leg bone is connected to the ankle bone?”
She stares back at me, putting her eye to the camera lens like she’s peering through a peephole. “No, but I hope to get to that in the next class.”
“Study hard. Be good, don’t do drugs, and don’t date boys.”
“I told you. I’m marrying ham.”
“I thought it was pork?”
“Shh. Don’t tell steak.” She waves goodbye, and we sign off.
I change out of the dress shirt, pulling on a casual green polo, then grab my phone, writing a text to the woman I didn’t think of naked in the shower at all.
Damn. I am impressing myself with my restraint.
I send her a non-flirty note, asking where we’re meeting. She replies quickly.
Truly: I have to pop into a restaurant supply shop that’s near Prospect Park. Meet me in the park after?
Jason: What? I’m not good enough to be seen in the restaurant supply shop?
Truly: Feel free to be seen there, weirdo. :) But I must warn you, it’s a bit like church for me. I’ll be the one genuflecting before the glasses.
Jason: Then we must meet there, weirdo. :)
Well, I do like the way she looks on her knees.
10
Truly: Good morning! It’s my six-month detox check-in.
Charlotte: Has it actually been six months since THE INCIDENT, aka what you described as the best sex of your life?
Truly: Grrr. You’re so not helpful.
Charlotte: Ah, but I thought good sex was one of the five great pleasures in life.
Truly: What are the other four again?
Charlotte: Sarcasm, cats riding Roombas, a well-made margarita, and high heels that feel like slippers. You know the kind—dainty and pretty on the outside and large and roomy on the inside.
Truly: I feel like those are three truths and a lie, because that last one does not exist.
Charlotte: Good sex does. But wait, we’re not talking about good sex. We’re talking about the fact that you’re avoiding it. How hard is that?
Truly: It’s awful. He’s too charming, too amusing, too easy to be with. He’s like a bag of popcorn. Have you ever tried to eat just one handful of popcorn?
Charlotte: That’s unnatural. Who the hell can do that?
Truly: Not me, that’s for sure. But here’s the deal: I’m going to be spending more time with him. He asked me to go to a few weddings with him for work, like as his plus-one, and I need his help with my work stuff too.
Charlotte: You’re going to be spending more time with the guy you want badly and have been secretly into forever? Sounds super wise.
Truly: Exactly. Help me.
Charlotte: I have just the thing for you. Can I show you the e-mail you sent me the morning after? Maybe you need a reminder of how you felt the next day.
From: MixologistExtraordinaire at gmail
To: LuckySpotGirl at gmail
Re: Confessions of a Bad Girl
I am the worst twin sister in the world.
The absolute worst.
How could I do this?
And by this, I mean engage in earth-shattering, toe-curling, bend-me-over-the-bed-and-take-me-hard sex with my brother’s best friend. By the way, did I mention the sex was incredible?
Oh, wait. I did.
But I’m not surprised, because I’ve always liked his company. He’s funny and clever, and he has this irreverent side that’s fascinating and wildly entertaining.
But we were only supposed to go snowboarding.
WE’VE SNOWBOARDED TOGETHER BEFORE WITHOUT INCIDENT.
It all seemed innocuous, right? A day on the slopes in January.
At the end of the final run, the sun had already set, and we headed into the ski lodge and made plans to meet for dinner.
I didn’t even drink at dinner. Neither did he. We just talked the whole time, and there was candlelight. Stupid candlelight. And he was flirting, and he always flirts, but this time . . . this time we weren’t in New York. We were far enough away I could forget everything that went wrong years ago.
Did I ever tell you about Sarah, my closest friend growing up? She was the shoulder I leaned on when my father died, and we were the best of friends all through college. After graduation, she told me she wanted to go out with my brother and asked for my permission. Shocking, right?
But I talked to Malone about her anyway.
When I asked if he wanted to date Sarah, he said only if it was okay with me. Only if it was all out in the open. I said go for it. No one was sneaking around, so it was fine.
He went out with her for a few months, and at first, it was great. Until Sarah wanted more. She kept pushing him, and when he didn’t want the same things she did, she turned into a different person. She was now Sarah, wound up and tortured edition, pining away for a man.
Malone ended it with her, and then she ended it with me.
One morning she met me for coffee to “break up” with me. She said she couldn’t bear to see me anymore because I reminded her of him. When she got over him, maybe we could be friends again, she’d said. That was well over a decade—nearly thirteen years—ago. And I haven’t seen or heard from her since.
Yes, I was younger, and sure, in some ways this was early-twenties relationship drama. But, Charlotte, as I’m writing this, my throat’s tight and my stomach’s churning. No one tells you how much it hurts to lose a friend.
But you know what hurt more?
What it did to my brother and me.
Nothing was the same between us for months. Everything was awkward and tense, and we barely spoke to each other. When things eventually returned to normal, we made a deal—we’d never date a friend of each other’s again.
I broke my side of the bargain last night.
I slept with his best friend.
And the worst part? I want to be consumed with nothing but regret, only what’s in my head is a whole lot more chaotic and crazy. It’s half regret and half desire.
But here’s the bottom line: it can’t happen again. There are some things I can’t risk losing.
Xoxo
Truly
Truly: Oomph. Nothing like having your words come back to haunt you?
Charlotte: You wanted tough love.
Truly: Yeah, that’s what I needed to see. I worry what would happen to his friendship with Malone if I let anything go further. What if we went out and it ended badly and caused a rift?
Charlotte: That is a real risk.
Truly: That’s why I can’t go down that slippery slope. I need to just focus on business. Not stupid lust.
Charlotte: Lust isn’t always stupid. Sometimes it’s exactly the opposite. That said, can we talk about the big issue?
Truly: Funny, I thought that was the big issue.
Charlotte: The big issue of how exactly you plan to pull off going to weddings together, being his fake date, and all that. You do know what happens at weddings?
Truly: People get . . . married?
Charlotte: And other people get . . . frisky. Picture this: dancing, toasting, WITNESSING DECLARATIONS OF LOVE AND AFFECTION. I’m sure going to one with someone you’re trying to keep your hands off will be as easy as resisting the seven-tiered wedding cake.
Truly: I can resist cake.
Charlotte: You’re a stronger woman than I.
Truly: You’re right. And you know what? I’m not that twenty-two-year-old anymore. I’m not that girl who struggled to talk to her own brother after he broke up with someone. I’m a goddamn adult, and my relationship with him is important. It’s one of the most important in my life. I’m going to see if Malone is busy.
Charlotte: Go for it. That’s an excellent resistance plan.
Truly: Hey, knucklehead! Want to grab coffee before I head to the restaurant supply store?
Malone: If you’re buying, and if by coffee you mean coffee plus eggs and potatoes.
Truly: My, my, someone’s a growing boy.
Malone: Yes, I’m having a growth spurt at age thirty-five. Are you too?
Truly: Oh no you didn’t! Did you really just remind me of my age?
Malone: No, I reminded you of MY age. I can’t help it if you happen to be nearly as old as your older brother.
Truly: I am and always will be younger, by an astonishing FIVE WHOLE MINUTES. And you are evil. Good thing I love you. Meet you at Wendy’s Diner in twenty?
Malone: I’ll be there with a glass of milk to help my bones grow faster.
Truly: Awesome. Also, I have to meet Jason after that. I’m helping him with a work thing.
Malone: Are you going into the men’s advice business or the groomsman-for-hire business? Because as much as I think you can do anything, I’m not sure either is the right path for you on account of your not being a man. Just a friendly tip.
Truly: Thanks for the sage advice. So helpful. By the way, I love you. Just wanted to say it again.
Malone: You’re such a goofball. I love you too.
11
I’d like to say I don’t flirt, but it’s too hard to resist.
When I find Truly ogling shelves of shot glasses, I point to the floor. “I believe I was told you’d be on your knees. ‘Genuflecting before the glasses,’ wasn’t it?”
“It’s called a metaphor. You use it to creatively express how you feel about something.”
“Let me creatively express how much I was looking forward to seeing you on your knees—like a die-hard Yankees fan looks forward to spring training.”
“Good one, since I do enjoy the arrival of spring training.”
“Thought you might like that. Want to tell me the story again of how you met Mariano Rivera?”
“Are you saying I’ve told you that story too many times?”
“Oh, no. Never. I hardly remember it. Was it after the game one Sunday afternoon, and Charlotte snapped the photo by the third baseline?”
Truly arches a disdainful brow. “See if I ever invite you to a game again.”
“Please tell it to me once more. I can hear it for the ten thousandth time.”
“I’m literally never sharing someone else’s season tickets with you ever.”
“You will. You totally will.” I shift gears, pointing to the glasses. “Have you ever collected anything? Like shot glasses or license plates or aprons?”
“Nah, I don’t really like things. I suppose, technically, I collect pancake recipes. But I keep them up here.” She taps her skull.
“That is worth collecting.” I pause, picturing what I might amass if I had that itch. “If I were a collector, I’d go for typewriters.”
“Typewriters?”
“Those things you use to write on? They have little keys with the letters of the alphabet on them.”
“Ohhh. I was wondering what those were.” She picks up a wineglass and runs her thumb along the stem. “Do you really write on a typewriter? That’s so quaint.”
“God, no. I’d have to become a registered hipster if I did, and I’m not ready to move to Brooklyn yet. Come to think of it, I don’t own skinny jeans either.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
“All right. Stop distracting me with talk of pancakes and typewriters. Why aren’t you on your knees?”
She taps me lightly on the chest with the rim of the glass. “Because you can’t have everything.”
“Don’t I know it.” I gesture to the overwhelming array of stemware lining the shelves—glasses for wine and martinis, for margaritas and champagne. “What are you shopping for?”
She shrugs happily. “Nothing and everything. By which I mean, I’ll know when I see it. But if I don’t check them out, how will I find that perfect new glass that tempts a customer? Gabriella’s the same. She actually sent me a list of new glasses she’s been coveting.”
She grabs her phone and shows me a text.
Gabriella: You must get Nick and Nora glasses. I both beg you and insist on it. They are sooo cool and so tren-day. Also, some V-shaped martini glasses for me? They make me happy. Pretty please!
“She’s enthusiastic.”
“That’s why she’s a keeper, and that’s why I want to move her up. She might love glasses as much as I do. After all, every drink needs the right glass. I’ve been in love with picking glasses and making drinks since I was a kid crafting the coolest mixes for my lemonade stand.”
“Seriously? You made fancy lemonades for sale?”
“Hell yeah. I hustled my ass off on the streets of the West Village, selling honey lemonade, red-pepper lemonade, cherry lemonade. But I mostly did it for fun. I made all sorts of concoctions growing up.”
“What besides lemonade was in your young mixologist repertoire?”
“Started with Shirley Temple, of course. Malone loved that. I tested all my creations on him, and my parents too. My dad went crazy for my Arnold Palmer. I’d set up at the kitchen counter with all the plastic cups and mismatched mugs. I’d mix sodas with syrups, and juices with other juices, and try to figure out the perfect garnish to add.”
“So you were, for all intents and purposes, always a bartender?” I ask as we wander down the next aisle, surveying sherry glasses and copper mugs.
“A businesswoman too. When I was a teenager, I made enough at my summer lemonade stand to cover my movie and lipstick budget.” She smiles, her glossy red lips shining. “I do like my lipstick.”
Oh, how I want to say, And I like kissing it off, but I’m on a flirting diet. So I focus on the non-naughty things she said. “And now you’re hoping to expand your business.”
