Twenty
Adam
I t’s nearly ten at night when we’ve finally cleaned up the leftover food from the card table. I help Gladys place it in the storage closet in the back, along with the chairs.
Sylvia keeps starting up a conversation as we try to say our goodbyes, and Mary hugs me for the third time. But we eventually usher them out the door, and I turn my attention to a clearly tipsy Sage, who is holding a platter of cookies with a beaming smile. She stumbles, knocking her shoulder into an industrial-sized washing machine.
“Better get her to bed,” Gladys mumbles under her breath.
“On it,” I reply with a huff. Peaches giggles at me as I take her by the arm and steer her toward the door that leads up to her apartment.
“You’re not scowling,” she says with a slur in her voice, tripping over the first step and sending the cookies flying onto the floor.
Rolling my eyes, I help her pick them up and wrinkle my face in disgust as she pops one into her mouth.
“You’re a mess,” I say. “And I am scowling.”
“No, you’re not,” she replies with a laugh. “You’re smiling. Ever since that gala, you stopped smiling.”
I pause for a moment as I let that sink in. Of course, it’s true, and I hadn’t even realized it. He did ruin my mood. And I’ve been a bit of a jerk ever since.
But that’s what I want, right? For her to keep her distance, to never cross a line or let anything grow between us. The longer she sees me as a broody asshole, the better. Right?
Once we get the cookies picked up, we finish the climb up her stairs, and as soon as I hear Roscoe yipping on the other side, I realize that she’s right; I am smiling.
I’ll blame this one on the tequila.
“Roscoooooe,” Sage croons as the front door opens and the three-legged rat-sized dog starts bouncing against our legs.
She picks him up and he starts kissing her face affectionately.
When she looks up at me again, she stops and points with wide eyes. “See! You’re smiling again.”
“Stop it,” I grumble as I take the cookies to the kitchen and dump them into the trash before she can eat any more.
“He needs to go out,” she says, walking toward the fire escape. I step in front of her just as she stumbles again.
“I’ll take him,” I bellow, stealing the dog from her arms.
“Thank God,” she replies with a hiccup. “I have to pee so bad.”
As soon as he’s out of her arms, she turns and sprints toward the bathroom on the other side of her apartment, pink waves bouncing as she runs. When I know she can’t see me, I let myself smile like it’s a secret.
Then, I carry Roscoe down the fire escape and wait for him to do his business. Once he and I are back in the apartment, I stop frozen in the kitchen area as Sage stands in nothing but her bra and panties near the couch.
“Where should we do it this time?” she asks nonchalantly.
“Do what?”
“Film the scene you wanted,” she replies with innocence.
Scoffing, I place Roscoe on the floor. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“You’re drunk.”
“So? It’s not like we’re really doing it.”
I only consider it for a moment before immediately shaking my head. “No. Still doesn’t feel right.”
The look of disappointment on her face is obvious as she crosses her arms and lets her shoulders slump forward. Then she rounds the sofa and plops down on the cushions, pulling the blankets up to cover herself.
As I’m standing there staring at her, I realize I could just leave. But I don’t.
Instead, I take the seat opposite her on the couch. She’s lying down with her head on the pillow as she looks up at me.
“Why didn’t you tell me you wrote a book?”
“You never asked,” I reply. “Besides, I didn’t think we were sharing personal stuff with each other.” Which feels like a lie. No matter how fake this relationship is, I’m dying to know everything about her. I’ve been intrigued since the moment she entered that diner.
“Well, you are my boyfriend,” she says before letting out a yawn.
“Okay, so what else do you want to know?” I ask. “My favorite food is waffles. I’m a Capricorn. I’ve never had a dog or any pet, really. And my best friend is my brother, Caleb.”
Turning toward her, I add, “So what about you?”
Her lips twist as she goes into deep thought. I bite back a smile, watching the way her nose crinkles.
“My favorite food is Mary’s green chile enchiladas. I’m a Leo. Roscoe is my first pet and probably my best friend too, if I’m honest.”
The corner of my mouth lifts in a crooked smile. How is it possible that she’s even cuter when she’s drunk? Then the smile fades as I realize just how alone she is. The Laundromat owner downstairs and the three-legged stray dog are the only family she has. She lost her job at the club because of me.
“Do you like writing?” she asks, distracting me from the depressing realization. But honestly…the question makes me a little uncomfortable. As if it’s too personal.
“I do like writing.”
“Would you write another book?” She yawns again.
“Yes,” I reply without hesitation.
“Good.” Her eyes softly close and she stretches her legs out so I pull her feet into my lap, rubbing her cold toes with
my hands. Then I slip off my shoes and prop my feet up on the ottoman.
I stare at her for a moment as she sleeps, and I try to remember how I felt about her when we first met. All the misconceptions and assumptions I made about her feel so flat and shallow compared to the person I’ve discovered she is.
Then as I stare at the tattoos traveling up her arms, I imagine what it would feel like to be Sage’s for real. What would my life look like?
What if I posted pictures of us online and held her hand in public? Not as a fake girlfriend, either. I do that already, but how would I truly feel if it was real?
No matter how hard I try, it doesn’t fit. She doesn’t fit in my life.
But at this point, I don’t even fit in my own life.
Maybe if I wasn’t me and my world wasn’t defined by my father’s career, I could make her fit. If I truly had feelings for Sage, I could see myself kissing her in public. Holding her under my arm. Waking up next to her every day.
Our lives would be an eclectic mix of church, tattoo shops, sex clubs, and Sunday dinners. It would be so chaotic and strange…but it would be mine.
When she’s fully asleep, I pull out my phone and open up the camera. Propping it on the coffee table, I aim it at her sleeping face and hit record. Then, I ease myself off the seat and crawl over her, dipping my face down to press my lips against her cheek.
She smells so good, and I wish for a brief moment that I could just lie here with her and fall asleep with her in my arms. After brushing my thumb over her jaw, I sit up and hit the stop button on the phone.
With some quick trimming of the video and a couple soft filters, I post the five-second clip to my social media with the caption, Her gentleman.
It’s fake, I remind myself as I hit send. But even with it being fake, I suppress a sense of vulnerability from posting something so personal for the world to see. Even if that’s the point of this whole thing.