“No. Don’t talk to her. Just leave her with the good impression you gave her yesterday. And definitely don’t bother trying to flirt with her. Her wife is hot and even younger than you are, I think.”
“Got it.”
“Okay, I got another call. Gotta bounce, love ya, bye.”
She hangs up before I can say goodbye, which is fine, because I never know what to say when she throws that Hollywood love ya, bye shit at me.
I’ve got that feeling in my stomach. Like something big is happening. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but all I can really think about is how none of this would have happened—whatever is happening—if it weren’t for Birdie. If she hadn’t decided to go to New York now too. If she hadn’t insisted on taking the train. If she hadn’t gotten me to bust out my Romeo in the dining car out of the blue.
I can’t change my clothes and get to the dining car to join her fast enough. But first, I strip the bed of last night’s sheets and shove them into my duffel bag, so Nancy doesn’t have to deal with them. I can’t wait to tell Birdie about the call.
When I get to the dining car, it’s only about a quarter full, but I don’t see Birdie right away…until I spot her at a table with some guy whose back is to me. He’s dressed in black and wearing a scarf. And Birdie is sitting across from him, beaming at him, hanging on his every word. And he keeps reaching out to touch her fucking hand that’s resting on the table as he talks.
I don’t sodding think so, mate.
I stand next to the table, taking up as much space as possible.
Guy doesn’t even realize anyone else is on the train, I bet.
“So, I turned to Sir Salman Rushdie, rolled up my sleeves, and I said, ‘Each and every Harry Potter book is exactly as long as it needs to be—would you like to take this outside and settle this once and for all?’.”
“You didn’t!” Birdie exclaims. As if he’d just told her he’s won the Nobel Prize for literature.
“I’m afraid I did.”
“What did he say?!”
“Oh, hello,” Scarf Fellow mutters when he looks up at me.
“’Sup.”
Birdie taps my arm, and I go over to take the seat next to her, resting my arm on the back of her chair—because it’s comfortable to do so. “Eddie, you’ll never guess who this is!”
The guy who’s about to leave us alone so I can talk to you…
The guy who looks like the guy from The Princess Bride if that guy had lactose intolerance and a stick up his ass.
“This is Rupert Norton the Third!”
Christ. There’s three of him.
“He’s a baron.” She’s so much more animated than usual, which concerns me. “So, his full title is Lord Rupert Norton the Third—of Norton in the County of Northhamptonshire. Did I get that right?”
“You certainly did, but please just call me Rupert Norton. Hello.” He holds out his hand with long thin fingers, and I shake it. Because I am not a dick.
“Cheers. Edward Sullivan Cannavale the First. Of Youngstown.”
“How do you do? We’ve crossed paths before, I believe.”
“Yes. I believe we were at uni together. Oxford, right?”
“I did go to Oxford. Sorry—did you really?”
“No—did you really?”
Birdie clears her throat. “Yes, Eddie, he went to Oxford. He’s the author of a bestselling book about contemporary British pop culture, and he has a very popular podcast called That’s Brilliant! With Rupert Norton. He’s giving one of the talks at the TEDx I’m going to!”
Stay tuned for my podcast: That’s Bullshit and It Is So Not Happening with Rupert Norton.
“I was hoping to tell you, actually, I think there was a small misunderstanding yesterday evening in the corridor. When I said what I said as you passed by, I was speaking to my mate on the phone. I wasn’t addressing you.”
“Oh. Cool. No worries.”
“I was a bit worried, so I’m glad I had the chance to clear things up.” He turns his attention back to Birdie. “So, this is the friend you were talking about?”
I do not like the way he said that word.
“Yes, this is my friend Eddie who was so sweet to accompany me on this trip, even though he already had a plane ticket to see his girlfriend—because he wanted to protect me from serial killers.”
I definitely do not like the way she said that word and I also do not like the way Rupert is giving me a knowing look.
You don’t know, Rupert. You don’t know anything.
“You’re on a children’s television series, Birdie tells me?”
Fuck you, Rupert.
“It’s a high school drama–End Zone. We won a Golden Globe award for best new show. I was actually just signing some autographs for fans on my way over here.”
“How lovely for you. I really should try to watch more American television. I’m sure it’s not quite as bad as people say.”
“Well, it’s a little sexier than what you’re used to across the pond, I’m sure.”
“I live in LA most of the time now, actually.”
I do not like the sound of that.
“Did you sleep well?” Birdie asks me, forcing a smile and changing the subject.
“Very well. Did you?”
“Very well.” She blushes and looks away, waving at the server to come over.
I order breakfast and coffee, and Rupert Norton the Turd asks for more hot water for his tea. Oh, look at that. He brought his own tea bags for a proper cuppa. How fucking quaint.
It looks like they’ve both finished their meals, so I really hope he’s planning on taking that tea back to his room or his throne or wherever the fuck he goes next. I don’t care, as long as he leaves really soon. I do not like the way he’s looking at her and I really don’t like the way Birdie’s looking at him and I have not ruled this guy out as a serial killer yet.
He finishes telling Birdie the riveting and hilarious story about him and Salman Rushdie, while I stare at him hard, trying to make him really uncomfortable. I think it’s working. He keeps shifting around in his chair, but maybe it’s that stick up his ass that’s bothering him.
I keep my arm on the back of Birdie’s chair, and with the other hand, I reach for an untouched piece of toast on her plate. “I had an interesting phone conversation earlier, Bird,” I say, but I keep my eyes on the Brit. “Can’t wait to tell you about it.” I take a bite of that toast.
“Oh good,” she says, eyeing me warily. “Can’t wait to hear about it.”
The server comes by with a small metal pot of hot water for Rupert. He makes a big show of leaving a ten-dollar bill on the table before standing and picking up his box of teabags and the metal pot. “I’ve got to rehearse my Ted Talk in my room, if you’ll excuse me.”
“TEDx talk,” I correct him.
“Indeed.” He smirks at me and then smiles at Birdie. “I shall see you back here at noon, then?”
“Indeed,” she says. “See you then.”
“I look forward to it.” He nods at me and then leaves.
“Back here at noon, huh?” I mutter. “Hot date?”
“Nooooo.” She absentmindedly twirls the loose strands of hair while watching that skinny fucker go, and I do not like it. “He just wants to learn more about what I do as an archivist. He might interview me on his podcast.” She dabs at the sides of her mouth with her napkin, carefully places and folds the napkin on the table while staring at it and blushing. “Tell me about your phone call.”
“You’re not seriously into him, are you?”
“Who?”
“Lord Snottington McFartnugget of Fuckyoushire.”
She frowns at me. “He’s a very well-respected person. He was very nice to me and it would be an honor and a huge deal if he interviewed me. But it’s not like that.”
“He’s so pale.”
“And?”
“And blonde. You can’t see it, but his shade of blonde hair totally clashes with yours.”
“Edward.”
“And old. He’s probably what—thirty-five? I mean, I know you like nerds, but he’s not even a cool nerd. Very thin lips, really thin fingers—not too promising if you want my opinion.”
“I don’t want your opinion.” She shakes her head and crosses her arms in front of her chest. “He’s thirty-two. And his lips are not thin. You talk to Alana yet this morning?”
“Oh right…no… Shit.” I totally forgot to read her texts. Completely. Forgot.
I pull my phone out from my back pocket and check my messages. There are five from Alana. One of them is a screenshot.
“Shit.”
“What?”
I check my email app for the link that Eric was supposed to send me. There’s one bar, so it takes half a year for the video to load, but it finally does, and… “Shit.”
Chapter Twelve
ALANA: Hi.
ALANA: Still having fun on the train?
ALANA: Because I’m having an amazing time reading all these comments and DMs about how in love you are with that girl.
ALANA: And how I need to dump you.
EDDIE: Babe I was going to call you but I wasn’t getting a signal. Calling you now.
ALANA: Don’t bother.
ALANA: I’m too mad to talk to you right now.
EDDIE: Babe. She’s just a friend and I was just acting. I told you.
ALANA: I know what you told me.
ALANA: But I also know what I saw in that video.
ALANA: I know what everyone sees in that video.
EDDIE: Did it really not occur to you that I’m a good actor?
ALANA: Did it really not occur to you to tell me that the “friend” you’re traveling with is a woman?
ALANA: Did it really not occur to you that someone would film you professing your love to her?
ALANA: Did you seriously not think for one second about how that would effect ME?
EDDIE: It was a monologue written by William Shakespeare. I’m sorry that it didn’t occur to me how it would AFFECT you when I was totally in character. And I’ve been friends with Birdie for six years. We’re just friends.
ALANA: Please.
ALANA: I’ve had sex with literally every guy friend I’ve ever had.
EDDIE: Are you serious?
ALANA:
EDDIE: Well I’ve never had sex with Birdie and I haven’t had sex with ANYONE since you and I decided to be exclusive.
ALANA: Oh…
ALANA: Was THAT what we decided?
ALANA: Oops!
EDDIE: What is that supposed to mean? I think we need to have this conversation over FaceTime.
ALANA: Can’t.
ALANA: I have a fitting in half an hour.
ALANA: For a designer friend of mine.
ALANA: A straight designer friend.
ALANA:
ALANA: I think it’s a little premature to decide to be exclusive with someone when you haven’t actually met that person in person, don’t you?
ALANA: Soooooo sorry for the confusion.
ALANA: Oh.
ALANA: Maybe you lost your signal.
ALANA: Kbye.
ALANA:
EDDIE: Where are you?
EDDIE: Did you leave for the dinner cat alright?
EDDIE: Dining car. Already. Duck you autocorrect.
BIRDIE: You need to drink a lot of water and you need to take an Advil and then you need to take a nap.
EDDIE: I’m not drink.
EDDIE: Drunk. Not drunk.
BIRDIE: You are on a timeout, young man.
EDDIE: Are you at the dining car already?
EDDIE: With lord snobbery farnsworth of skinnyfingerton the
BIRDIE: You need to stop ordering alcohol. You need to stop drinking alcohol. You need to take a nap. You need to calm down. And then you need to call Alana to smooth things over with her.
EDDIE:
EDDIE: I’m coming to the dining car.
BIRDIE: Eddie.
BIRDIE: Eddie stay in the room!
BIRDIE: Edward.
BIRDIE:
BIRDIE: He’s not here yet.
BIRDIE: Eddie.
BIRDIE:
13
Birdie
The One with the Clear Violation of Rule Number Two
I came to the dining car early because I need a glass of wine before lunch.
Because I accidentally pleasured myself while thinking about Eddie while I was in the same room with Eddie last night.
Because I have a feeling, based on the way he’s been looking at me this morning, that he heard me and that he did not buy the snoring.
Because someone recorded and uploaded Eddie’s Romeo monologue to the Internet, and now a bunch of idiots are somehow convinced that he’s cheating on Alana and madly in love with me—just because he’s such a good actor.
Because multiple idiots forwarded the video to Alana, and now it sounds like poop’s getting real and I haven’t ensnared a meaningless penis for self-cockblocking purposes yet.
Because Eddie has been drinking ever since he texted her after breakfast, and he’s so vulnerable right now that I just want to wrap him up in a blanket and rock him to sleep in my arms while singing him a lullaby. I am definitely not naked in that scenario and I’m definitely not singing like Ariana Grande.
Because my only non-Eddie penis prospect on this train has very long, thin fingers that make me slightly sad and somewhat uncomfortable.
But Rupert Norton is an excellent fellow and he’s exactly the sort of chap that I should be dating.
He’s a well-bred, glasses-wearing intellectual that I can have interesting conversations with. And he’s perfectly fine-looking. And he has an English accent! He’s exactly my type.
I just need a little more wine to convince myself of this for some reason.
And I don’t want Eddie to show up, but I’m also not sure if I want him to work things out with Alana. Because, as a friend—I know she’s not the girl for him. She doesn’t deserve him. Not even a little bit. I’ve known this, as a friend, all along. He deserves someone who appreciates all of him. Someone who really knows him. Someone reliable. Someone who can keep him on track and inspire him to be the best version of himself.
As soon as he finds that person, I will encourage him to marry her, one hundred percent.
Until then, I will drink wine and try not to pleasure myself while thinking about him ever again.
Just as I’m polishing off my first glass of wine, I look up to see Rupert walking in, with Eddie right behind him. Rupert has a polite, neutral expression on his face, and Eddie is trying very hard not to laugh. He straightens his posture and carries himself like an uptight old Englishman—which is not how Rupert carries himself at all. Not exactly.
Rupert looks over his shoulder to check what I’m looking at, and Eddie stops imitating him just in time.
Well, this is going to be a flippin’ flappin’ awesome delight.
I stand up and curtsy at Rupert…immediately wishing I hadn’t done that, but it’s too late now.
“Your lordship.”
Rupert chuckles, the skin around his eyes wrinkling more than you’d expect it would for a thirty-two-year-old. “Your grace.” He carries a leather journal in one hand and places the other hand lightly upon my shoulder when leaning in to barely kiss me on the cheek. With his rather thin lips. “Lovely to see you.”
“Lovely to see you.” I try to ignore Eddie, who has taken the seat next to me—not only without waiting to be invited to join us but before Rupert and I sit down.
He waves the attendant over and asks for a beer.
“And what can I get for you, sir?” the attendant asks Rupert
.
“It’s a bit early in the day for me to start drinking, I think. Just a tonic water for me, cheers.”
“Oh, same for me. That sounds refreshing,” I tell the server.
“You sure you don’t want another glass of wine?” Eddie prods.
“I would also like another glass of wine, thank you.” Turning to Eddie, I smile and say, “Perhaps you should enjoy a tonic water or just plain bottled water, Edward…”
“Perhaps,” he says. “But first—beer.”
“How about a coffee too, then.” I call the server back. “Sorry, can we have a cup of coffee too, please?” I nudge the breadbasket over to him. “Eat the bread.”
“And ruin my cute figure?” he says, pulling up his shirt to pat his lower abs. “I don’t think so.”
“You need to eat something, Eddie.”
His eyes suddenly go hooded and his tone gets very suggestive. “What would you like me to eat, Birdie? Your wish is my command.” He’s leaning back against the wall, away from me, but it feels like he’s right up in my very warm face.
Damn him.
He’s flirting with me.
He’s flirting with his face.
He’s flirting with his voice.
He’s flirting with his abs.
He’s even flirting with his butt somehow—I can’t see it right now because he’s sitting on it—but I know he’s doing it.
“You’re in clear violation of rule number two,” I tell him.
“You were in clear violation of rule number five last night,” he replies without even blinking.
So he did hear me. Fan-flubbing-tastic.
“They’re really just guidelines, not rules, so…”
“Exactly. So, if I were to reference, for instance, a certain slipple nip and frock rocket incident, I wouldn’t really be breaking a rule so much as I’d be respectfully disregarding said guideline.” He grins. “I might even eat a block of parmesan cheese in our room tonight. Really throw caution to the wind.”
I shake my head at him. My head is just a big neutral face emoji right now, but my panties are basically melting down the inside of my pant leg. I don’t know what has gotten into him, but he needs to go take a nap.
A Very Friendly Valentine's Day Page 8