Predictably, she rolls her eyes. “It’s not that, it’s…”
“You have a thing about feet I should know about?”
She shakes her head.
“You still ticklish?” I ask, ghosting my fingers on the bottoms of her feet. Amazingly, she doesn’t even crack a smile.
“Nope.” She pops the “p” but I remember just where Lucy’s ticklish spot is. But that’s not a game for today.
“You trust me?” My question isn’t just about pedicures, and Lucy knows it. I can tell by the way she averts my gaze before nodding.
She looks up at me with a speculative gaze. “Have you ever given a pedicure before?”
“Of course,” I scoff. “Ok, only to myself. I keep wanting to give Rose one, but the girl can’t keep her feet out of her mouth, so that's a hard no.”
“You gave yourself a pedicure?”
“Yeah. Not, like, often. It takes for fucking ever. But I did this charity thing last year where I sang my signature song, “Single Ladies,” right? And the shoes were open toed. So, yeah, I had to look my best.”
She smiles. “You think that qualifies you to give me a pedi?”
“Hell’s yes. That, and I’ve seenBull Durhamfifty-six times.”
“What the hell isBull Durham? And how does it qualify you to administer a pedi?”
“Weren't you the valedictorian of your class or something?”
“Salutatorian, and I’m still pissed about it. Why are you opening old wounds?”
I raise my hands in mock surrender. “So sorry to dig up past trauma. My point is, you’re smart as hell—easily the smartest person I know—and though I may not live in a think tank, my friends are pretty damn astute. But you? You’re like a whole nother level.”
“Is now a good time to mention that ‘nother’ is not a word?” she asks, sass in her tone.
“The hell it isn’t a word. I just said it. Anyway, you’re brilliant. That’s been established. But when it comes to pop culture, your IQ is abysmal.”
“Abysmal?! I beg your pardon! My pop culture knowledge is decent. Average, even.”
“I’d believe you, but you just admitted to not knowing whatBull Durhamis, so...jury’s still out.”
She reaches for her phone and taps away. She reads for a minute, then looks up at me. “Are you kidding me with this? That movie came out in 1988, Whit! That’s the year my dad graduated high school. How the hell am I supposed to know this?”
“Because it’s classic cinema. One of the best movies to come out of that decade, if not the century. But we don’t have time to get into all that. The movie is filled with great scenes, and some great fucking lines. But my favorite part is when the guy, Crash, paints his girl’s toes.”
Lucy looks at me like I’m nuts. Granted, this is not a new development.
“For real. They’ve wanted each other like crazy, and this is their one shot, and they go for it. So, sex everywhere. But after that, he paints her toes. It’s perfect.”
Instead of smiling up at me and returning the dopey grin I’m giving her, Lucy’s face is stoic. She motions between us. “But we’re...we’re not having sex.”
Her breathy voice betrays her. I can damn near hear her pulse beating from here, and the flush on her cheeks has nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
I mimic her motion, gesturing to her in that damn flannel shirt, then back to me, in jeans and a Bainbridge Hockey t-shirt. “No, Lucy, we are not having sex.”
“Because, we shouldn’t—couldn’t. Can’t. I mean, we can’t.”
She’s probably right—Lucy tends to be right about everything—but I don’t want to hear the litany of reasons that we can’t be together. I know why. She doesn’t want to mess with her dad’s happiness, and I won’t endanger my mom’s.But this moment is fragile—I can feel it. And I don’t want to waste it listening to Lucy repeating what I already know, and I don’t want to spend it trading barbs. I want to do something nice for her, so I dab some polish remover on a cotton ball and get to work.
* * *
