16. Mira

16

MIRA

"I'm assuming the reason you're calling so late is because you've been enthusiastically and horizontally thanking your new boyfriend for all his help today."

I don't even dignify Taylor with a response. "Why can't I see you? Do you have your video off?"

"No, I don't—Oh, wait, I do. Give me a sec." Suddenly, the video flares to life, and I shriek. "Oh, God, don't be dramatic, Mimi."

Taylor has on a hard plastic, white mask with cutouts for her eyes, nose, and mouth, with a glowing red light pouring out from underneath like Darth Vader at a rave.

"Screaming when you think you're talking to your best friend but Michael Myers shows up instead isn't ‘dramatic.' It's a pretty understated reaction, actually."

"It's a light therapy mask."

"No, it's nightmare fuel. Can you not ? I can't take you seriously with that thing on."

"I cannot not ," she snaps back. "You're the one who waited until the middle of the night to call me. This is my light therapy time. If you want to see something truly scary, I'll show you my under-eye bags when I don't do this. Now, that is scary."

Taylor has a twelve-step skincare routine that she is borderline religious about. Our budding friendship was almost derailed when she first came to my apartment and found out I was washing my face with a bar of soap I kept next to the sink.

"Fine. Then we'll do this recap tomorrow. I'll call you in the morning and?—"

"No way! Hang up and I'll break into Zane's condo and stand over your bed with this mask on," she threatens. "You'll be traumatized."

"Too late for that," I mumble.

"You can't tell, but I'm rolling my eyes," she says. "Now, spill. What's it like? What's he like?"

She acts like that's an easy question to answer. Like I should be able to summarize all of Zane Whitaker in five words or less.

I sigh. "He's my boss. I don't know. The condo is nice. Zane is nice . Everything is nice."

Taylor gives me a thumbs down and blows a loud raspberry. "Try again. I saw the way he was looking at you before I left today. There was nothing ‘ nice' about his ogling."

"He wasn't ogling me!" I argue, even while some desperate part of me kinda, sorta, maybe hopes he was. It would only be fair. An ogle for an ogle. "He helped me move."

"Into his house," she reminds me—as if I could forget. "Are you sharing a room?"

"Of course not, Tay. Don't be ridiculous. It's not like we're a real couple."

Typical couples do a lot of things that you and I won't. Things that we can't do. If we're smart.

Taylor would die a thousand happy deaths if I told her what happened when Zane showed me to my room. If I was a good friend, I'd let her live vicariously through me and experience the will-they-won't-they angst.

But Zane and I won't. We can't .

So I guess I'm not a good friend because I'm taking that primo spank bank material with me to my grave.

Not before I play and replay it in my head every day for the rest of my life, of course.

"Oh my God!" Taylor squeals. "You're blushing, Mimi! Your cheeks are red."

My face is hot. Other parts of me are hot, too.

"Everything looks red to you. Those lights are messing with your eyes."

"I can see just fine," she dismisses. "You like him."

"He's paying me to be here. This is a job. If hanging out with someone for a paycheck is a sign of true love, then I should run back to Bean & Brew and propose to Brody."

"Don't lie to me! Zane and Grody Brody have nothing in common."

Taylor's not entirely wrong. Zane and Brody might as well be from two entirely different species. But they have one crucial similarity… "I'm not going to sleep with either of them. That's something they have in common."

"So you're being serious? No enthusiastic thanking occurred?"

This is exactly why I've never let Taylor set me up with anyone, despite how many times she's tried over the years: she gets too invested. I know she loves me for me, but I also know some small part of her wants me to be more normal. She wants me to have furniture that can't fold in half for easy storage, and a boyfriend, and to let her tag pictures of me on Instagram.

But I can't do any of that, so there's no sense getting her hopes up.

"I feel like you're forgetting the whole reason I'm here. He has a child, Tay. There was a four-year-old in the room with us all afternoon. Plus, Daniel."

She goes still. "Wait. Daniel Patterson?"

"You know him?"

"Know him. Had his rookie picture taped to the wall of my dorm room." She shrugs. "Po-tay-toe. Po-tah-toe."

I latch onto this subject change. "You have a crush on Daniel?"

"I liked the way he looked," she corrects. "I still do, I guess. But he's so, like… serious ."

I frown. "Daniel Patterson? You're talking about the Angels' equipment manager, right?"

"Is there another Daniel?"

"There must be," I laugh. "Because that doesn't sound like the guy I met today."

"Interesting. Tell me more."

I happily walk her through my interactions with Daniel, rewriting the afternoon to sidestep any mention of Zane at all. It's almost like he wasn't even there. Taylor is weirdly rapt and attentive the whole time.

After she and I hang up, I slide between soft sheets, sink into the world's most comfortable mattress, and fall asleep convincing myself that it will always be that easy to avoid Zane.

My last thought before I pass out is, Yeah fucking right.