Page 82 of Flint’s Strike

I can bring breakfast fixings. For Sunday morning.

My heartbeat stutters, a sensation I’m completely unprepared for, and I almost drop the phone. Grace, Emi, and Isabel watch as I struggle to wipe the smile off my face.

You do that.

Got to get back to this blanket or Marlene will start asking questions. A lot of them.

He ends the exchange with a kiss emoji, and suddenly, we’re back on equal footing.

“Well?” Grace asks. “Did he apologize? Did you? Will there be a second date?”

“Yes. Yes. And yes. Now can we please talk about something else besides my suddenly not non-existent love life? We’re failin’ the Bechdel test here. Someone’s gotta have good gossip to share.”

“I’ll make us another round.” Emi pops out of the recliner like something bit her in the ass, then practically dances her way back to the kitchen. “There’s drama in the newsroom you’re all gonna love.”

Isabel follows her, leaving just Grace and me on the couch. “Wait. What is your middle name?” she asks.

I groan. “Ilana.”

“Oh, my God. Your initials spell PIE?” She claps her hand over her mouth, laughing so hard, tears spill down her cheeks.

“My mom was a chef. One with a wicked sense of humor.” I rest my head on Grace’s shoulder. She knows more about my mom than anyone here, but that still ain’t much.

“You never answered Isabel’s question,” she says softly once her giggles subside. “Do you know?”

“It’s still new. But I like him, Grace. He sees me.”

With a smile, she squeezes my hand. “You spend too much time hiding. You deserve to be seen.”

“Parker! Come grab Grace’s margarita and the veggie tray. If Emi’s gonna dish about drama at Channel Five, we’re gonna be here a while,” Isabel calls from the kitchen.

I tighten my fingers around Grace’s for a brief moment. “You see me too. I think you always have.”

“Parker! Did you hear me?”

Laughing, I wriggle forward until the couch isn’t swallowing my entire ass, then push up with only a small wince. God, I can’t wait for the stitches to come out. “Hold your damn horses. Your couch didn’t want to let me go. Emi, make my next one a virgin. I’m drivin’ Grace home when we’re done.”

“You got it, babe. All the spice, none of the tequila. We should call this the Parker.” Emi holds up the glass. “Enough heat to bowl you over, with no regrets or bad decisions.”

I love these women. And for some reason, they love me too. I wish I knew what I did to deserve them. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe I didn’t have to do anything but be…me.

Eliot

I slide my phone back into my pocket, and only then realize the entire room has gone silent.

Marlene, Ruth, Betty, and Jean are all staring at me.

Fuck.

Ignoring them is the only strategy I have, though I’m certain it won’t work. It’s never worked.

I pick up my needles, count the number of stitches from my last marker, and add three more in a blue so bright, Cookie Monster would be jealous. My eyes burn if I stare at the damn blanket too long, but the women fawned over the pattern when I first sat down. I didn’t say a word. Marlene may have been right, but I won’t admit that under pain of death. I’d never hear the end of it.

“You’re smiling,” Marlene says, a twinkle in her hazel eyes.

“I’m knitting.”

“And smiling. After being on that phone of yours for at least four minutes.”