I shoot him a curious glance. “Why is that?”
“Because she wasn’t fun. She wasn’t funny. And she wasn’t friends with you.”
I consider his assessment. Maybe he’s onto something. “So you’re saying it was never right with her?”
“Never. I mean, she didn’t even laugh when I told her about the toilet plunger named Fred that I had to carry to work one day. And, admit it, that was best-story-ever level. Savannah cracked up when I told her about Fred.”
Eddie works for a company that shoots industrial videos for tradesmen. I smile, remembering Savannah’s reaction the night Eddie waxed on and on about his boss requesting he pick up a plunger for a photoshoot.
“Savannah did appreciate the story of Fred, true. She has a good sense of humor if she can tolerate you.”
He smirks. “Exactly.” Then he points to the door. “Now, get the hell out of here. Have a good time with the Sav-meister. I’m going to watch some Webflix streaming on your TV.”
“Enjoy my place.”
He winks. “I always do.”
As I walk through the neighborhood on my way to meet Savannah, I think back on the last two years of working together. We’ve checked out bands together, grabbed lunch in the middle of the day, beer after a show. We debated music and Brooklyn and books and which subway lines were the absolute worst, and what kind of flowers to plant on a rooftop terrace, since we both agreed that’s the Brooklyn dream. “Peonies, tulips, roses, you name it. I want them all in a rooftop garden. Maybe some rosemary and sage too,” she once said at lunch at a sandwich shop.
“Confession: I have a flower connection. I can get you all those at a steal,” I told her. “My mom owns a flower shop.”
She beamed. “Sold!”
We were total buds, and I loved our friendship. But when Denise came into my life nine months ago, Savannah and I didn’t do as much of that any longer. Understandably, Denise didn’t want me hanging out with another woman.
Come to think of it, I did miss Savannah’s company for a while there. She’s lighthearted, easygoing, and we always have something to talk about.
Good thing I won’t have to worry about Denise’s opinion tonight.
I head into the neighborhood bar to meet Savannah and work on our backstory. When I see her, seated on a barstool, her hair flowing past her shoulders, something hits me for the very first time.
Now that I’m not with Denise, all I see are Savannah’s toned legs, her long hair, and those big blue eyes.
Holy shit, is my closest female friend a total babe and I never noticed it until tonight?
I walk up to her, clear my throat, more awkward than I’ve felt before with her. “So, how long have we been going out?” I ask, diving right into the reason we’re here.
She laughs. “Good to see you too.”
“Hey. Sorry. Also, you look nice.”
I want to say You look pretty. Only I don’t, because all these thoughts are colliding at once and I need to figure them out.
She glances down at her outfit—simple jeans and a pink top. “Thanks, and I think we should say we’ve been dating for three months. Because that’s enough time where you might not have told your mom about me but not so much time that it will seem like you were hiding it.”
“And what do we like to do for fun?” I ask after I order a beer.
“We like to play bocce ball,” she says, rattling off an activity that we’ve done a few times in the past. “We love to go see musicians play. And we definitely, really, totally dig trying to eat the spiciest food in all of Manhattan.”
A grin spreads easily on my face. “Hey, it sounds like it’s not even a fake story.”
She flashes me a smile. “There’s nothing fake at all about that story.”
And the funny thing is, it doesn’t feel the least bit fake to me either. It doesn’t feel fake to me when I pay for our beer or when we walk to the party. It doesn’t feel fake when I loop an arm around her waist as we stroll along the streets of Brooklyn.
And it doesn’t feel fake at all when there’s the slightest tremble from her as I touch her.
We get to the engagement party at my mom’s favorite restaurant and everything feels ridiculously, incredibly real. Everything comes into focus at last. It’s as if I wore the opposite of rose-colored glasses around her, and they blurred her from the realm of possibility. Now the glasses are off, and I can see clearly what’s been right in front of me all along.
I grab two beers from the waiter, and I hand her one first.
She tips the bottle to mine and says, “Cheers,” and even that word feels different, like we have something to cheer about.