Page 54 of Poetry On Ice
It’d be insane if it bothered me. McGuire isn’t my boyfriend. And we’re not on a date.
Alessia places a perfectly manicured hand on his upper arm and says, “You simplyhaveto see this one, Robbie. You’ll love it.” She drags his name out, rolling theRand spitting it out like something she’d like to swallow instead.
She shows him a plush, cream U-shaped sofa with padded headrests. He sits and adjusts a few throw pillows to make himself comfortable. He crinkles his nose. Alessia moves him along swiftly. Next up is a large semi-circular smoky gray leather affair. It looks like something that would be at home in a retro conversationpit with low lighting and a selection of bright-colored hookah pipes.
McGuire and I test it out together. I do it in the manner of a man with social graces, and he does it without any at all, throwing himself onto it and putting his feet up. Alessia doubles over, laughing at his antics. It’s clear she’s never been subjected to so much as a mediocre sense of humor her entire life. Poor thing.
“It’s comfy,” says McGuire, “but I don’t love it. Looks like something I’ve seen in someone else’s house, you know?”
“Ah,” says Alessia, as if that not only makes perfect sense, it’s just the sort of well-thought-out feedback she needs to excel at her job. “I know exactly what you want.”
She shows McGuire a massive chocolate-brown leather four-seater and a midnight-blue twill three-seater. She has a couple of male sales assistants move the pieces around so her new favorite client can see them together without the strain of having to use his imagination. She suggests placing two oversized love seats across from the blue one to finish the look. Nothing matches exactly, but I have to hand it to her, it all goes together with effortless style.
“Verychic,” she says with a flourish of her hand, making it look like she’s scattering invisible fairy dust over the sofas. Or, more likely, attempting to cast a spell on McGuire. “Very chic.”
He seems happy with this selection, thank fuck, because I’m milliseconds away from telling him he doesn’t need a goddamn sofa at all. I don’t know why I ever thought he did. I have no idea what sparked my preoccupation with his seating arrangements.
If he needs to sit on something that badly, he can sit on my fucking face.
Alessia rings up the sofas, and McGuire mournfully tells her about his plight. He name-drops a few popular players and mentions they’ll be coming over the weekend after next. I can tell Alessia doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the other players or their families or the fact they sat on flattened boxes the last time they visited his house. She does, however, care greatly about the fact that McGuire has been suffering, seatless, for weeks. She can’t let it stand. She has a long, loud word with her manager and comes back victorious and not at all surprised about it.
It’s official. The sofas will be delivered, white-glove service included free of charge, to McGuire’s house by next Friday at the latest.
When it’s time to pay, McGuire steps out of the way, and I hand her my card. She raises a brow and drops her gaze from my eyes to the collar of my jacket and back up again. I’m not one hundred percent sure because I’ve been wrong about this kind of thing before, but I see an accusation in them. If not an accusation, a strong question, at least.
“Lost a bet,” I say curtly.
“Ah,” she says.
As we leave the store, McGuire says, “There’s a great place around the corner. They make this hot chocolate that’s basically pure, melted chocolate. It’ssogood. It’s so rich that when you order it, the server gives you this cautious look and says, ‘Are you sure?’”
“I didn’t know that,” I say a little too quickly.
The Chocolatrie has an old-world candy store vibe and every conceivable type of chocolate on display. It has black-and-white checkered floor tile and the walls are swathed in walnut shelving. There are large copper pots laden with truffles and trays and trays of handcrafted treats under the counter. Everything in sight is gold, cacao, or opulent shades of cream. If heaven has a scent, this is it.
Our server recognizes us the second we walk in. He doesn’t make a big deal of it, but he straightens hisposture slightly and quickly shows us to a booth. We take our seats, scooting into the far end of the booth with McGuire sitting directly across from me.
I’m pleased with where we’ve been seated as the booths are tucked away in the back of the store and are much more private than the tables near the entry. I understand that running into fans is part of the job. It comes with the territory, and I’m used to it. But I don’t love it. Peopling is hard enough when it’s people you know. Perfect strangers talking to you as if you’re an old family friend? It stresses me out.
“I’ll have a Death by Chocolate, please,” says McGuire, ignoring the strenuous warning printed directly under the item on the menu—the drink contains no less than seventy-five percent chocolate and is not recommended for the faint-hearted, people with high or low blood pressure, or, reading between the lines, those with common sense.
The server raises a pale hand to his throat and says, “Are you sure, sir?”
McGuire kicks me lightly under the table and doesn’t move his foot away even after he’s made his point and I’ve successfully managed not to smirk at what a dumbass he is.
“I’ll have the…” Shit. I can’t remember what the drink I want is called. It was described asa great option for normal peopleon the menu. “…uh, same.”
There’s another kick under the table as the server gives me the same treatment he gave McGuire, only this time it’s less of a kick and more of the arch of a foot sliding slowly up and down my calf.
“I love this place,” McGuire says, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hand. “Thanks for bringing me here.” The way he says it is so sweet and sincere. I honestly can’t tell if he’s a mastermind with a talent for freaking me out or if he’s so delusional he really does think this is a date. “Hot chocolate was always a big thing for us growing up. My mom used to make it for us sometimes, and she and my dad would tease us by forcing us to say, chocolat, like this”—he tilts his head back and does a truly awful, phlegmy impression of a French accent—“or we’d only get one marshmallow.”
He looks wistful when he says it like he’s about to tell me something meaningful and deep. It makes me uncomfortable, but I’m acutely aware it’s my turn to talk, so I say, “They sound fun.”
“Yeah, they are. My mom and dad are both fun parents. My mom’s a doctor and my dad stayed home to take care of us. It was pretty wild growing up with thetwo of them in charge of us. If there’s anything they can do to make a situation ridiculous, you better believe they’re gonna do it.” He looks down and smiles to himself. “And once they land on something stupid, theycommitto it. Beth got snarky about thechocolatthing and refused to do it the first time they suggested it, so they exacted revenge by doing it every single time we had hot chocolate for the next fifteen years.” He smiles again, but this time, it’s for me, not for him. He’s trying to connect. To share something about himself with me. It makes my palms sweat. “It drove Beth crazing growing up, but I loved it.”
There’s a lag. It’s my turn to talk again, I can tell. “What’s Beth like?”
“She’s pretty great. She’s three years older than me, but for most of our childhood, it felt more like ten. She’s super mature. She has a very serious limit to the amount of shit she’s prepared to put up with. She’s one of those people that’s kind of scary but also good to have around because she makes it physically impossible for you to have a big head. She’ll call you on that BS so fast your head will spin.”