Daniel gave a polite cough and feigned interest in the dingy hall of the apartment complex.
Betty fumbled with the key to her tiny London flat before sticking it in the slightly loose knob and executing exactly the correct push/turn combo…it wouldn't open otherwise. Behind her, Daniel pursed his lips and Betty felt that infinitesimal nodule of anger throb once more in her chest.
Yes, Daniel, this is where I live now. It could fit into the living room of the tiny row-house in Jackson Heights. Because some of us can't afford to up and quit our plush jobs in the middle of an existential crisis, knowing we'll still have money out the wazoo no matter what…
As Betty made a sweeping "come in" gesture with her arm (meant to be goofily theatrical but she was pretty sure it came out as sarcastic), she berated herself for her harsh thoughts. She loved Daniel, was thrilled to see him, and if she resented him pissing away the EIC position he'd (they'd) worked so slavishly hard for him to retain—the grueling hours, the mockery of her colleagues, the time spent away from her own family to help him pick out the perfect shirt for a business lunch—well, then, she'd just have to put on her big-girl panties and deal with it.
Just like when he refused to tell her goodbye after years of friendship and all it entailed—the loss of parents, blogs gone bad, the heartbreak that comes with meeting and losing lovers, betrayals and redemption, karaoke, them against the world (or at least Wilhelmina), backs to the wall—they could write an epic poem about all they had been through and he hadn't even returned her pleading call that night.
She took and deep breath and forced a (braces-free!) smile at him. Come on, Betty. Big. Girl. Panties.
Daniel's own beautiful, beautiful teeth flashed white in response, but she half expected to look down and see a cheesy thumbs-up to accompany it. He was no better at faking than he'd ever been, certainly no better than she was.
Daniel rocked back and forth on his sneakers while Betty went to the fridge and grabbed two beers. Returning, she walked the two feet from the kitchen to the sofa and plopped down. The springs made a protesting groan. Sheepishly, Daniel sat down beside her and took the beer.
"Thanks."
"No problem," she chirped, with a flippancy she didn't feel.
She squished the bottle to her lips and tilted her head back, trying to approximate a casual, hearty, we're-all-good-here-thanks-for-asking swig, but succeeded only in sending half the beer down her windpipe and the other half down into her cleavage.
Daniel looked as if he wanted to laugh, and in the old days he would've gone ahead and done it. It was, after all, such an old school Betty thing to have done. Instead, she saw him out of the corner of her eye searching futilely for a napkin and, finding none, settled on the next best thing: his shirt.
He stripped the whole damn thing off, captured her arm, and gently but firmly tugged her over the cushion she'd strategically put between them. Never letting go of her upper arm, he rubbed the soft cotton over her face, lingering over her lips (God, the shirt was still hot from hugging his body and smelled like him) and trailing leisurely down her neck.
She tried to avoid his intense blue gaze, only to have her eyes riveted to that strong chest. He wasn't as sculpted as she remembered…no flab, just a mature, healthy beefiness, his formerly waxed pecs now covered with a light, aesthetically pleasing dusting of hair.
Betty was distracted from the warm, pleasant tension building in her lower back to feel a flare of panic and anticipation as she realized the shirt's next logical destination was her beer-damp breasts.
Would he? Do I want him to…?
Yes. Yes, God help her, she did.
But he stopped, her best friend Daniel, just like she knew he would, and it took all her will-power not to arch up to him in silent supplication. Because Daniel was a gentleman and wouldn't make a move until he had an express invitation, and they'd crossed one too many boundaries already since Trafalgar Square.
He pressed the t-shirt against her chest and rose to his feet, a blush staining his shoulders, neck, and face. His hand reached out to touch her hair and then drew back, clenching at his side.
She stared up at him, noticed that she hadn't breathed in three minutes, and managed to stammer, "Let me wash this."
"There's no need," he said, shuffling his sneakered feet.
"Unless you plan to wear one of my silk blouses back to your place, then I think I'd better. Besides, if you can fit into any of my clothes, I will kill myself." Besides, if I keep it, I'll just end up nuzzling it or sleeping in it or something equally pathetic.
No doubt, they were in trouble.