“I wouldn’t have gotten pissed.”
“Well, I was just trying to be sensitive to… you know.”
I shake my head then kiss her cheek. “I don’t deserve a friend like you.”
“You’re damn right,” she says, pushing me away. “You deserve better.”
“You’re right, but I’ll settle for you any day.”
“God damn, you know just what to say to get my panties wet.”
The knock at the door startles both of us and Senia splashes Coke all over the sage-green sofa we went halves on last month.
“Shit!” she yelps as she slams her glass on the coffee table and races to the kitchen to grab some paper towels.
I haven’t checked on Cora yet today, but she rarely ever knocks on our door. She doesn’t like leaving Bigfoot unattended for more than a couple of minutes at a time. Maybe Adam is finally going to make an appearance. It is Thursday, after all. It’s almost the weekend.
I answer the door and stare at the guy standing in front of me for far too long. He finally clears his throat and I chuckle awkwardly.
“Sorry. Can I help you?”
He holds a simple bouquet of wildflowers tied with a lavender ribbon. “Are you Claire Nixon?”
“Yes.”
“Sign here.”
He hands me a clipboard and I sign next to the X. He hands me the flowers then mutters something about having a good night before he jogs away toward a white van.
I shut the front door and find Senia spraying Windex on the sofa and sopping up the Coke spill with gobs of wadded up paper towels.
“Are those from him?” she asks as she sprays more Windex on the expensive sofa.
I’m a bit dazed as I pull the card out of the bouquet and open it.
These flowers are nothing special, unlike you.
It’s like the guy has radar. He can sense when he’s moving up my shit list. And he knows just what to say to get back in my good graces.
“What if he has a double-life?” I say as I sit back on my side of the sofa and inhale a large whiff of the sweetly scented flowers. “Maybe he has a girlfriend back in Wilmington who he visits during the week.”
“Now you’re just being paranoid,” she says as she gathers the used up paper towels and heads back to the kitchen. “What does the card say?”
“These flowers are nothing special, unlike you.”
“Ugh!” she groans. “You told him your mantra!”
I’m not in the mood to have my mantra crapped on again so I ignore her while I continue sniffing my flowers. They’re wild and beautiful and so much classier than a dozen roses. He knows me better than I would expect.
“Maybe he is a stalker!” I shout back at her just as she comes out of the kitchen.
She plops down next to me and grabs the TV remote off the coffee table. “Maybe you should stop overanalyzing this.”
When I text Adam to thank him for the flowers and ask if he wants to go to a hookah bar with us Friday night, he responds with what could possibly be the hottest text message I’ve ever received.
Adam:
I wouldn’t miss the chance to see your sexy lips wrapped around my hookah.
After Senia introduces Adam to Eddie and they make a few dumb jokes about going to get some hookahs (pronouncing it like hook-uhs), the four of us walk to the hookah lounge from the apartment. The lounge is less than half a mile away, but Eddie cannot keep his hands off Senia the entire way there. Adam and I walk a few paces behind them, watching as Eddie’s hand slides underneath the back of her T-shirt and she pushes him away when she realizes he’s trying to undo her bra.
I glance sideways at Adam just as he glances at me and I smile. “You’ll get used to it. Senia and Eddie are PDA Central.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” he says as he laces his fingers through mine and brings my hand to his lips. “It’s nice to see two people who aren’t afraid to make their feelings known.”
I’m not sure if he’s implying that I’m afraid of sharing my feelings with him, but I try to follow Senia’s advice and not overanalyze his words or actions. I focus instead on the beautiful beach houses and quaint shops we pass as we walk down Lumina. He squeezes my hand and I look away from the scenery to find him pointing toward a small house with blue shutters and a Jeep parked in the driveway.
“I have a meeting with the guy who lives there tomorrow, Jason Wicker. He’s a surf instructor on Shell Island and he wants me to work with him on weekends. I told him my weekends belong to you, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“Your weekends don’t belong to me,” I reply quickly, ignoring the pang of disappointment at the thought of spending even less time with him. “You should work with him. You need to get back out there.”