I tap my spoon on the edge of the serving tray, knocking off a few beans. The idea of throwing a party to celebrate locking down a mate seems a bit unnecessary to me. Isn’t that the whole purpose of the wedding?
I lean my hip against the table while my hand absentmindedly stirs the beans. “I’m trying to decide if these parties are usually formal events or not. I own one dress and I’m not sure it’s fancy enough. It’s pretty plain.”
Riley tilts the large pot of clam chowder toward her and peers down into it. “I guess it depends on the couple having it. If they have money, why not throw it around?” She looks up at me as she lifts the pot off the table. “I’m going to get a little bit more before people start coming up for seconds. Are you good?”
I look down into my tray. Not many people stopped for the green beans, although they look and smell delicious.
“I have more than half. I think I’m good.”
As she walks to the back of the kitchen with her pot, I slip my phone out of the pocket of my jeans and step away from the table.
I have no idea what Reed’s ex-girlfriend’s money situation is. She could’ve blown all her cash on the heavily perfumed invitation sitting on my bedroom dresser. This party could be low-key and informal. It could also be an event that requires Reed to wear a tux.
Shit. I can’t handle him in something rented.
Me: Hey, it’s me. Is this thing on Saturday going to be really fancy? I don’t know if I have anything to wear.
It’s not raining today, which means Reed is most likely at work. He might not have his phone on him. I could be stuck making a judgment call on this, but I don’t want to buy something I’ll only wear once if I don’t even need it.
Reed: Who is this?
I stare at the screen, mouth falling open. Really? Who is this?
Me: Beth.
Me: Beth Davis.
Me: From McGill’s.
Reed: Sweetheart, even if I didn’t know who this was, which I did, you could’ve stopped at Beth. I would’ve figured it out.
Me: You’re hilarious.
If there is a way to text sarcasm, I pray I just nailed it.
Reed: I thought I was funny. So did Connor.
Me: Who is Connor?
Reed: One of my workers. I asked his opinion. He laughed.
Me: He’s sucking up to you. You sign his paycheck.
Reed: Technically, my mother signs his paycheck. She runs the office. I just tell him what to do.
Me: Like laugh at your poor attempts to be funny.
Reed: Hold on. I’m programming your number into my phone, Beth Davis from McGill’s.
Me: You aren’t seriously putting me in like that, are you?
My phone beeps as a photo message comes through, a screen shot of his contacts opened up to my name, Beth Davis from McGill’s. I keep my laugh subdued, okay, that’s somewhat funny, and decide he isn’t the only one out of the two of us who can crack a joke.
Me: You could put me in under the nickname I went by in high school.
Reed: What was that?
Me: Beth Deep Throat Davis.
Holy shit. I cannot believe I just typed that.
I have never texted anything that . . . filthy before. Ever. Not even a few words that hinted around to something sexual.
What possessed me to pop my dirty-texting cherry with Reed Tennyson? I was going for funny. Maybe that wasn’t his kind of humor. Shit. Shit! My throat suddenly feels tight, my tongue too large for my mouth. What was I thinking? I could’ve used my actual nickname growing up. It isn’t funny, but it’s at least a word that wouldn’t make my insides feel like they’re being held over an open flame.
My thumbs move frantically, trying to undo my error.
Me: Sorry. I don’t know what made me send that. I’ve never been called that before. My momma always called me Bethie when I was younger. That’s the only nickname I’ve ever had. If you could erase what I’ve sent you prior to this message and never speak of it again, I’d appreciate it.
I’ve never been the type of person who recovers well from uncomfortable situations. If anything, I’m usually making it worse on myself. Case-in-point.
Me: I’d never be called Deep Throat. I have a really sensitive gag reflex. When the doctor does that strep test with the long Q-tip and scratches the back of your throat, I almost throw up.
Me: Luckily, I don’t get dick very often.
I nearly swallow my tongue.
Me: OMG. Sick! I meant I don’t get sick very often!
Me: Ducking autocorrect!
Me: What the hell is dicking?
Me: OMG. What is happening?
I’m a second away from hurling my phone against the nearest hard surface, or dropping it into the pot of steaming chowder Riley is carrying my way.
Reed: I think your phone loves dick.
Some of my embarrassment subsides as I read his cavalier response. The hand covering half my face slides down and resumes typing.
Me: I am so sorry if I made this awkward.
Reed: Not awkward for me. You’ve kept me amused on my break, which is now over. Text me your address. I’ll dick you up at 5:30 p.m. on Saturday. (See what I did there?)
I muffle my laugh with my hand. Good one.
Me: Oh, wait! You didn’t answer my question.
Reed: What was it?
Me: The party. Fancy? Do I need to dress up?