“Marisol!”
Okay, I had to admit that it made sense. Marisol was one of those adorable bubbly girls that everyone loved and I could absolutely see her and Fin together. But the only thing Marisol hated more than guys who spit in the street was being set up. She was all sweetness and light until you tried to make her do something behind her back and then the darkness came out. I’d seen that once and I never wanted to see it again.
“We don’t have to actually do anything. Just make sure they sit next to each other. The God of Love will do the rest.”
“The God of Love? We talking the Greek or Roman one?”
“The American one. Alcohol.”
Another point well made.
“Oh, this is happening. I wonder if she’ll let me give her some of my lingerie. I could totally make it in her size.” One of the hazards of having a friend who made clothing was that she kept track of all your measurements, and was not above taking them in public if she thought you’d gained or lost a few pounds.
“I don’t know. I can’t see her wearing anything like the ribbon ensemble.”
“Of course not, I’d make her something maybe white and cotton candy pink. What do you think?” She dashed off to her studio room before I could answer. Another hazard of living with someone who makes clothes was that bolts of fabric became décor in your home, because there were only so many places you could put them.
The rest of the evening was spent giving my opinion on what the design should look like, and how it would capture Marisol’s “essence”. Sometimes Sloane took fashion a little too far.
We had another movie marathon, this time with 80’s classics. Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, Sixteen Candles, Ghost, Dirty Dancing.
“Why in the hell do we let ourselves watch this movie?” Sloane said, dabbing her eyes as we watched Ghost.
“I don’t know,” I said, grabbing for the tissues as soon as she was done with them. “We should have done them in better order.” I blew my nose and then yawned.
“We’re such suckers for this shit,” Sloane said, tossing her tissue angrily on the floor.
“It’s why Nicholas Sparks is so successful.”
“Douchebag.” I concurred.
“So what are you going to do with Fin’s terrible advice?”
Ugh, we were back to that. I’d thought we put that baby to bed.
“I’m going to ignore it and keep trying to have a professional relationship, even though it’s hard. I don’t have a choice.”
“Well, that’s not true. You could say, ‘fuck it,’ and just do what you want. Not that I’m saying you should. I know how important your job is.”
“It is important. I’ve been working my entire life to get where I am. I’m not going to give it up and not over this.”
“You go girl!” She held her fist up and we bumped. “Solidarity sister.”
“Amen.”
~*~*~
“How was your weekend, Mr. Blaine?” I had come once again with his cherry Danish and black coffee. It seemed that we had an unspoken agreement that we would alternate who would bring breakfast and it felt like my turn.
“Lovely, Miss Clarke. Very relaxing. I partook in some golf and went deep sea fishing.” I looked up from the pastry bag where I’d been trying to find another napkin.
His eyes were dancing with amusement.
“I’m kidding. I hate golf and I get seasick, so I ended up visiting my nieces. This is the first time in two days I’m not wearing a tiara or glitter on my face.”
Once again, unexpected.
“How old are they?” I asked.