Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
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By the time we load our dirty stuff into the washers and push the button for the elevator, her photo has over five thousand likes and several hundred comments. I check some over her shoulder.
"HotInFL: I can come to do your laundry anytime!"
"SlippersHeaven: Glad the sample of the shorts we sent you fit! We love to see you wear them more. PANTING EMOJI."
"Unomeee: That's why I still live with my parents, free laundry all the way, WINKY FACE."
"JaimieWalterzzz: I'm gonna be at your concert next week! EXCITED EMOJIx3"
"You are not allowed to stop being friends with me, once you started selling out arenas and earning the big bucks," I say.
She laughs at me. "Just need a bit of luck to break through."
"No luck required. You've been working hard on this dream. You're ready for the big league. When a label snatches you up, I'd be nothing more than another fan, learning about you through the Internet." Angie's talent is hard to miss and if, no, when she gets recognized, she'll be the star she always dreamed of being. I'll be left behind in the dust. And I hate that feeling already.
"Nonsense." She bends down and lays her had on my shoulder. "You're my best friends and nothing will change that. Neither distance nor fame. You know, I love you."
I grunt in reply.
We're back in the apartment, and I dish the piping hot gooey Tartiflette to our plates. "Careful, wait until it cools down a bit." Mom made this hearty winter dish in the middle of summer, to go with our Christmas-in-July tradition—her way to make up for the real Christmas she could never spend with me. A decadent meal on a shoestring budget. The two of us ate the leftovers for days. Angie and I will probably demolish them this week-end.
"So, tell me how your walk with the mystery shopper went," Angie purrs in her best imitation of a gossipy sorority girl.
"I'm glad I wore my yoga pants and sneakers this time."
"What was he wearing?"
"He was wearing running shorts again."
"Mmm, I love running shorts." Angie closes her eyes for a second, pretending to savor the image my words have conjured up. "They're the shortest shorts you can see on a man these days. Do you have a selfie with him? Or should we search for a photo online? You've never told me what he looks like. Is he totally ripped?"
"You are so shallow, my friend. But yes. Kind of. Leaner, none of those big bulging muscles." I blow on the forkful of Tartiflette and gingerly slide it off with my teeth. The flavor bursts in my mouth. Salty, creamy and earthy—it's a direct link to my childhood.
Angie repeats my maneuver and swallows her first bite. "This is heavenly." She goes for another. "A bit too rich for summer, but you have to promise me to make it again once it gets cold."
I promise and proceed to dish everything about the walk. Well, not everything. I hold back, skipping over the dating instruction and focusing on the exercise. I'm not Ben's therapist, but the need to protect his privacy is more important than the desire to go over the juicy bits with my best friend. Knowing Ben's bluntness, Angie would find out about most of those details directly from him.
"Ben, huh. I had a feeling he was into you, with him haunting you at the store and whatnot. But I didn't think you were into him as well. I wouldn't have goaded you as I did."
"He's attractive, and I'm shallow enough to admit I enjoy looking at him, but we are in different places in our lives. He's not the only hot guy I've been around." The first serving was delicious, but I crave more. The Tartiflette does its Siren's call and I can't refuse.
Angie's done as well. She comes over, dishes another spoonful onto her plate and reinstalls herself at the counter. "Why don't I believe you? Poor guy, I should've figured it out earlier." Fork in the air, she's gesticulating like she has my Italian blood in her. The side of Angie that was full of passion is never far from the surface.
"I'm not out to get him. Or any guy for that matter. I'm on a dating cleanse. Don't make me sound like a bitch."
Angie comes over and hugs me again. A second hug of the morning. It's going to be serious.
"Am, I'm on your side." I know that. She reaches down and squeezes my hand. "Please, be real with me." Her eyes are serious, imploring for me to fess up. She doesn't show the tender part of herself to many people, maintaining the happy-go-lucky image as much as she can. "You've never been in love with any of your handsome boy-toys. You use them for a while and then move on when you have your fill. Even X. The ending with him was different, but I'm sure if not for your Dad's death, he would've become another one of your ex-boyfriend's in no time."
"Are you done, or are you going to psychoanalyze me some more?" I push my way out of her arms.
"I'm sorry about what happened with X; he hurt you"—Angie presses on—"I warned you he wasn't a good guy. And not the right one for you. This was the first time you got dumped, and that stung, sure, but was that grief really about him?"
"Enough, Angela, that's enough." I turn away and head over to the stove, but she isn't done.
"Or is it about your dad? I miss him too, you know." She throws her last sneaky remark at my back.
She speaks of missing Dad with a casualness of a bystander, not someone who is living through the aftermath. My anger at her for saying my hidden truth out loud flares up, but I push it back down. I'm not giving her the satisfaction of knowing she's right. She isn't going to provoke me into letting my anguish out again.
Angie cares about me. She's gone through more with me over the last four years than my own mother, and I'm grateful to her for that. I don't know what I would've done without her, completely alone, but she doesn't understand how much thinking about my dad hurts me. She wears her emotions on her sleeve, and I prefer to never unearth mine. The trick is to stifle the smallest sparkle of feeling, stomp it out, and I don't have to deal with extinguishing a raging fire afterward. If I ignore her words, I can pretend she didn't say them.
I put more cheesy potatoes on my plate and start eating. I'm a pro at avoidance.
"I'm sorry," Angie deflates, shriveling up her tall frame. "Blame it on my exhaustion, but let's not waste this day being mad at each other. I promise to stop my lectures."
I take her mug, pour another cup of coffee, add two sugars and a splash of milk, as she likes, and extend the peace offering to my best friend.
