Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [59]
I wave my hand at him, but there is no way to deny that these are from anyone other than a guy with romantic interest. If they weren't red roses, I could pawn them off on some familial occasion, tell them it was some special day for me or that my parents are aware of my service error and are trying to comfort me. But these are not only roses, they are red roses. And bountiful. Most certainly not from a relative.
Kenny leaves after making one final remark about the roses costing someone some serious jack. I try to head out the door after him, but there is no chance that we are going anywhere until Hillary gets full information.
"Who are they from?"
I shrug. "I have no clue."
"Aren't you going to read the card?"
I am afraid to read it. They have to be from Dex—and what if he signed his name? It is too risky.
"I know who they're from," I say.
"Who?"
"Marcus." He is the only other possibility.
"Marcus? You guys barely hung out at all this weekend. What's the deal? Are you holding back on me? You better not be holding back on me!"
I shush her, tell her that I don't want everybody at the firm knowing my business.
"Okay, well then, tell me. What does the card say?" She is in interrogation mode. For as much as she hates the firm, she is one tough litigator.
I know I can't get out of reading the card. Besides, I, too, am dying to know what it says. I pluck the white envelope out of the plastic fork in the vase, open it very slowly as my mind races to make up a story about Marcus. I slide the card out and read the two sentences silently: I AM SO SORRY. PLEASE SEE ME TONIGHT. It is written in Dexter's all-capitals handwriting, which means he had to go to the flower store in person. Even better. He did not sign his name, probably imagining a scenario like this one. My heart is racing, but I try to avoid a full-on grin in front of Hillary. The roses thrill me. The note thrills me even more. I know I will not refuse his invitation. I will be seeing him tonight, even though I am more afraid than ever of getting hurt. I lick my lips and try to appear composed. "Yeah, from Marcus," I say.
Hillary stares at me. "Let me see," she says, grabbing for the card.
I pull it out of her reach and slip it into my purse. "It just says he's thinking of me."
She pushes her hair behind her ears and asks suspiciously, "Have you been on more than that one date? What's the full story?"
I sigh and head into the hallway, fully prepared to sell out poor Marcus. "Okay, we had a date last week that I didn't tell you about," I start, as we walk toward the elevator. "And, um, he told me his feelings were growing…"
"He said that?"
"Something like that. Yeah."
She digests this. "And what did you say?"
"I told him I wasn't sure how I felt and, um, I thought we should keep things low-key over the weekend."
Frieda from accounting darts into the elevator after us. I hope that Hillary will save further interrogation for after our elevator ride, but no, she continues as the doors close. "Did you guys hook up?"
I nod so that Frieda, standing with her back to us, won't know my business. I would have said no, but red roses would make less sense had there been no hook-up.
"But you didn't sleep together, did you?" At least she whispers this.
"No," I say, and then give her a look to be quiet.
The elevator doors open, and Frieda scurries on her way.
"So? Tell me more," Hillary says.
"It was pretty minor stuff. C'mon, Hill. You're relentless!"
"Well, if you'd told me the entire story up front, I wouldn't need to be relentless." Her face looks trusting again. I am out of the woods.
We talk about other things on our short walk to Second Avenue. But then, over steak at Palm Too, she says, "Remember when you dropped that beer on Saturday night, while you and Dex were talking?"
"When?" I ask, feeling panicked.
"You know, when you were talking, and I came up—right at the end of the evening?"
"Oh yeah. I guess. What about it?" I make my face as blank as possible.
"What was going on? Why