I paired this with that and that with this until I decided on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt from the band my sister started in college, and my black boots.
The all-girl band Rhea spearheaded was called Rhea and The Pimps.
It might have been the reason they only landed three gigs, all of which were arranged by the bassist’s older brother.
The colorful logo on the front of the black shirt is a combination skull and rose that has absolutely nothing to do with the band’s unfortunate name.
The drummer’s sister drew it, and since she’s now working for a major animation studio, I consider the shirt a masterpiece of art.
I trust that my ass is looking good in the jeans I’m wearing.
I attribute that to all the walking I do around the city and the dozens of stairs I tackle daily on campus.
I glance at the alarm clock next to my bed. It’s ten to eight. I want to be prompt but not pushy.
If I knock on Matthew’s door at two minutes past eight, that shows I’m punctual but not eager.
I’m both, but he’ll never be the wiser.
Drawing in a deep breath, I remind myself that this isn’t a date. It’s a casual meal between friends.
When I was watching Professor Stein give her lecture this morning, I couldn’t help but wonder if the kindness Dr. Hawthorne is showing to me is related to their relationship.
Maybe he does this with all of her students, and Gwynn’s turn is coming up.
As much as I don’t want that to be true, I have to keep my head grounded.
I rush away from my thoughts and into the bathroom to grab one more look at my reflection in the mirror before I leave my apartment and head to the one across the hall.
“Rhea and The Pimps,” Matthew reads my T-shirt, his eyes hovering on the words written in neon green over my breasts. “Who is Rhea, and how many pimps are we talking about?”
I bark out a laugh. “My sister and I guess there were three pimps, oh wait, there were four.”
I almost forgot about the keyboard player who would only show up for rehearsal on Wednesdays because she took ice skating lessons the other six days of the week.
“Were,” Matthew draws that word out slowly over his tongue. “What’s become of the pimps? And Rhea? How is Rhea? Is she still in need of a pimp? I don’t know any, but I can ask around.”
“Rhea is designing swimsuits in L.A., and the pimps are each doing their own thing,” I explain as I stand in the foyer of his home, holding one of the containers of food from Axel NY in my hands. “One is a teacher. I think another might be a chiropractor.”
“The pimps are all on the straight and narrow now?” he asks with a knitted brow. “Bravo to them.”
“The pimps were Rhea’s friends in college. That was the name of their band.”
“Would I know any of their music?” He moves around me to shut his apartment door.
I take the opportunity to stare at him. He’s dressed much like I am in a black T-shirt and jeans, although his T-shirt isn’t emblazoned with any logo.
“You wouldn’t,” I admit. “They all liked different music. I’m pretty sure they never played the same song at the same time.”
Glancing at me, he smiles. “That sounds interesting.”
“It was.” I sigh. “I used to sit in the garage and listen to them practice. I loved every minute of it.”
He rakes me from head to toe. “Are you telling me that I’m in the same room as the number one fan of Rhea and The Pimps?”
‘The only fan,” I whisper. “I’m the only person outside of the band who owns one of these T-shirts.”
His gaze drops to my breasts. “You wear it well, FU.”
Laughter escapes me. “Did you just call me FU?”
His dark eyebrows perk. “If memory serves me correctly, that’s how you sign your diary entries, so I assumed it was your nickname of choice.”
I shove the container of food in my hand at him. “It’s not. No one has ever called me that before.”
“Noted,” he says, taking the container from me. “Follow me, FU. I have a bottle of sparkling water with your name on it. Your actual name isn’t on it, but still, I chilled it just for you.”
Chapter Nineteen
Faith
I’m having trouble wrapping my brain around the idea that this gorgeous apartment with a stellar view sits across the hall from mine.
My apartment is dingy, small, and the stained laminate on the countertop is peeling.
Dr. Hawthorne’s apartment is larger, with granite countertops and a view of Manhattan.
I take it all in, turning in a circle as he moves into the kitchen with the take-out container.
“You seem surprised by what you’re seeing,” he notes. “I assume that Gerry didn’t upgrade his place before he moved out.”