Yep, Isabella’s definitely not getting the standard treatment. The fact he still calls me by my first name when she’s around, doesn’t escape me. God forbid Isabella finds out we’re closer friends than she realises. “Swimming tonight?”
His tone means the only proper response is a flash of my middle finger. He grins like I’ve told him he’s got a cute butt.
“All right, let’s do this.” Keats pulls off his T-shirt and steps out of his shorts. Even though this is our third week of swimming, the awareness that warms me up all over whenever he’s showing so much skin is still there. He positions his goggles on his forehead before hooking the strap over the back of his head. He then swings his arms, shakes his hands and jumps on the spot like an Olympic swimmer loosening his muscles at poolside.
I catch Isabella staring at him along with me.
She quickly averts her eyes back to her gear bag when she realises she’s busted. Taking off her T-shirt dress, Isabella reveals a black one-piece pair of togs with a low vee-neck and mesh panels at the waist. Not exactly don’t-look-at-me swimwear.
Keats stops posturing as soon as he notices her outfit, following her to the shallow end of the pool like a sailor to a siren. I roll my eyes and park myself on the same bench at the half-way mark of the pool.
“How’s your back?” Keats asks her, making me realise they’ve had contact with each other when I wasn’t around.
What back?
“Better, thank goodness. This is such a workout. I must’ve gone too hard last time. I was so sore after. I swear, I fell asleep with my arms at my side. And I mustn’t have moved the whole night ’cause I was still in exactly the same position when I woke up.”
“I’ve been having the best sleep I’ve had in over a year.”
Which means since their break-up.
Isabella either doesn’t make the mathematical connection (unlikely for a nerd like her), or she’s choosing to ignore it and hope it goes away.
“Well, I want to try to swim at least fifteen hundred metres tonight in less time than it took me last week time. Shall we get started?” she suggests, pleasant but professional.
“I’m ready when you are.”
Isabella waits until Keats sets off before she follows behind him. She’s a little faster now. He’s only swum two laps by the time she finishes her first lap. He sets off again when she does and completes his hundred metres a few seconds before she reaches the shallow end. He waits in the water on bent knees, keeping it to his chin.
“Ready again?”
She nods. “Off you go, then.”
He shakes his head, smiling before pushing off.
I roll my eyes before turning on my tablet to check my emails on the Miz Peggy website. I scan about twenty before one grabs my attention. It’s from a chubby girl who has a crush on the hottest guy at her work. She finishes the letter with, “Am I wasting my time?”
My fingers quickly tap my three-letter answer: Yes! I stop just before I click Send. I press the Backspace key instead and reply that she should love her curves and forget any guy who doesn’t appreciate them.
Taking my own advice, I booty call Neil.
***
Thank God for Penny’s air con, or else this would feel very much like a sweat shop right in her dining room. Isabella has her bridesmaids in a row, putting together the bonbonniere for the reception guests. The wedding is just over a month away, after all.
Across the table from us, Penny is painstakingly writing each guest’s place card with a calligraphy pen. Beside her, Mia is making beaded bracelets which she’s charging Isabella for materials only. It’s my job to wrap these in tissue paper and put them in a silver mesh bag before tying a red bow to close the pouches. Next to me on the production line is Isabella who then attaches the name cards to the filled bags.
Fiona has a totally different task. She has to put sugar-covered almonds into a fancy, tiny silver cardboard box which will accompany each bracelet pouch on the table. Every time she pops one into her mouth instead of a container, Isabella stiffens. But considering how heavily pregnant Fiona looks at only six months along, the bride says nothing.
“Oh fuck, Richard Dean’s invited? The guy who called us, ‘The Fat Chicks’ Club’?” Penny stops with the calligraphy pen poised above the place card she’s about to work on. This is why we’re doing this here instead of at the Harper home—so we don’t have to worry about our language and conversation topics around Isabella’s strict parents.
“Yes. He’s still friends with Byron through Keats,” Isabella says. “But I drew the line at inviting Lucy Kent. No way I want her around on my wedding day.”
“So King Dick can’t bring his girlfriend?” Mia asks, fingers not missing a beat in threading another beautiful bracelet.
“That’s right. She was awful to us all throughout high school, so no way. The bride gets pretty cool veto powers,” Isabella grins. “Let’s just say, she wasn’t exactly happy about it.”
“Oh, God. I have no idea what to get you for a present, chick,” Penny remarks on another tangent as usual, resuming her calligraphy duties with such a steady hand that a tingle of envy courses through me. For fingers, I have sausages that have no fine motor skills. “How about a gift card from Miz Peggy? She has some cool stuff you can take on your honeymoon.”
I catch myself before I can beam like a proud mother—Penny’s talking glowingly about my baby.
“I am not going through airport security with sex toys in my bag, Penny. Besides, that whole fat porn thing with the penis animation are just a bit too much for me. Kinda tacky and smutty.” Isabella
