Truly: It’s not an act!
Charlotte: I know. You really are good friends. Like Spencer and I were. And obviously we still are.
Truly: And now you’re husband and wife, and mommy and daddy too. :)
Charlotte: Seems we did okay. :) Point being, I didn’t smell anything fishy. Well, except for the floor of Yankee Stadium, but that’s up there with the ten surfaces on which you never want to place a purse.
Truly: Alongside the Port Authority?
Charlotte: Yes, and any men’s restroom. Including those in the Four Seasons.
Truly: Don’t forget the Ritz too.
Charlotte: Anyway, just keep on this falling-out-of-bed path and you’ll be fine. As long as you don’t slip onto his dick again, you can totally be friends forever!
Truly: Thanks for the tip. I’ll try to avoid falling onto his cock.
Charlotte: Well, you do have a history of accidentally landing on it.
Truly: Purposefully. It was a purposeful landing.
Charlotte: Own it.
32
The next morning as I run in the park, I call my sister, who’s usually between classes at this time of day in London. Talking to her is always a good reminder of why I do what I do—why I bust my ass, work hard, and keep things on the level.
Or rather, why I’m going to stay on the good-boy side forever.
“Hey, you! What’s going on?” she asks when she answers.
“What would you do if you really wanted something but couldn’t have it?”
“Like strawberries? Because you know I break out in a rash when I eat them.”
“Sure. Yeah. Good analogy.”
She laughs, a little surprise in her tone. “I don’t eat them.”
“It’s that simple?”
“Jason. Of course it’s that simple. But I don’t think you’re asking me about strawberries.”
“Hell, was it that obvious?”
“As obvious as the fact that all cats ignore humans. So, who is the girl you can’t have?”
I heave a sigh, slowing my pace so I can share this. “Best friend’s sister. But it’s okay. I have it under control. I’m fine. I’m not even thinking about her.”
“Are you sure? Because you called me to talk about her. Well, strawberries. But I suspect she’s the strawberries.”
“Fine. You can see right through me. She’s definitely the strawberries, and I will just pretend I have a strawberry allergy. It works for you.”
“Mine’s real, you twit.”
“Sure, right. And it works for you too. It’s exactly what you need to resist strawberries. Therefore, I now have a strawberry allergy.”
“But you don’t have a strawberry allergy,” she insists.
“Of course not. And I’d never make light of one either. But perhaps I’ve just recently developed a dire reaction to . . .” I imagine the woman I want, the way she smells, her breezy scent. “Fresh air.”
When Truly and I go to jujitsu the next night, I keep my fresh-air allergy at the top of my mind. I’m not rude to fresh air. I don’t ignore fresh air. I might even praise fresh air for how excellently she executes all sorts of moves, especially when she and Presley go at it during a demo on the mat. Not going to lie. A cat fight is fun as hell to watch, even when it’s staged.
“Grab her hair!” I call out. See, that’s friendly.
“I’ll grab your hair next time,” Presley says to me in a huff.
I grin and throw out, “Scratch her back!”
“I’m not going to scratch your back, Jason,” Presley shouts.
“You’re a terrible sport.”
“I’m not scratching your back either,” Truly says.
Well, I can’t resist that. “You mean . . . again. You’re not scratching it again.”
