The Invitation by Adriana Locke

Georgia

The bathroom mirror is foggy from my afternoon bath, so I grab a hand towel and wipe off the glass so I can see my reflection.

My hair is up in a towel, pulled away from my face, and there’s a rosiness to my cheeks. My lips are slightly swollen from the hot water. I look like I’ve been kissed.

I press my fingertips to my lips as butterflies take flight in my stomach—and I think about almost kissing him. Again.

“What is happening?” I whisper.

I’ve had so many thoughts rolling through my mind since my second date with Ripley. How is he so funny, thoughtful—sweet—when I know him to be the opposite?

The purple gloves. Taking me skating because I mentioned it over a decade ago. His promise not to let me fall.

This is the same man who would rather spit nails than speak to me most days.

What’s the difference now? The cameras?

The cameras weren’t in the parking lot.

“This is a mindfuck of exponential proportion,” I say, heading into my bedroom.

I get dressed quickly, my thoughts still with the blue-eyed monster.

If this were the real Ripley, would things be different between us? Would it change anything? Would it erase the hurt he’s caused me in the past?

“Two fake dates don’t change the behavior of a man for the last twelve years,” I say aloud. “Especially when it’s two fake dates with his actions being tracked by people outside of our friend group.”

My stomach drops.

I don’t know what I want. I’m not sure which result I want to be the answer. Do I want him to be the asshole he’s always been? Or do I want there to be more to him than a rich prick who thinks he’s better than me?

I flop on the bed and stare at the ceiling, memories from a decade ago floating through my mind.

“You know he doesn’t really like you, right?” The blonde giggles, blowing a big pink bubble in my face. “There was a bet. He won. They’re all in the refreshment room laughing about you right now.”

“And he’s probably at home laughing at me right now, too,” I say on a sigh.

“Hey!” Sutton’s voice drifts through my townhouse. “Where are you?”

“Bed,” I shout back.

She bops around the corner. “Still?”

“Hey, unemployment has its perks.”

“You’re technically employed by me.” She sits on the edge of the bed. “Well, the company I work for, but whatever.”

I sit up, my body feeling heavy. “What are you doing here in the middle of the day?”

“Just checking on you.” Her smile is as bright as the strand of pearls around her neck. “Myla said the footage she’s gotten so far from your two dates is perfect, by the way. You haven’t really texted me much, so I thought you might need a face-to-face bestie sesh.”

I smile at her.

“So, how’s it going?” she asks.

I get up, wishing I could get out of this conversation. There’s no way to pull it off. If I try to change the subject away from Ripley, it’ll send a red flag shooting to the sky. I’m always happy and free to talk shit about him.

“We talked on the phone last night,” I say. “You already know. It’s going fine.”

“I know you said that. But I wanted to see your face when you said it.”

My hand stalls over my dresser. “Why?”

“A couple of reasons,” she says. “One, Myla said the two of you are, in her words, absolute fire together.”

I find a pair of random earrings on the dresser and put them in my ears.

“Myla said it’s such a natural back-and-forth that editing is going to be so much easier than she feared,” Sutton says.

Really? “Did you tell her it’s because we can’t stand each other?”

“I did. She found that interesting. And the second reason I wanted to see your face is because you haven’t exactly called me screaming about him. That, my friend, is a bit suspicious.”

My body stiffens. “Yeah, well, he behaves because a camera is in front of him. He’s professional. I’ll say that about him.”

Except that he nearly kissed me … twice.

Flames spiral through me as I think about the first time he nearly kissed me at Ruma. The flames burn hotter as I remember his face just before he lowered his mouth toward mine at the rink. There was no camera then, and his gaze was without the promise of mischief.

I’d give anything for this feeling to be real—to feel this alive. I haven’t felt anything about anyone in such a long time. Even with Donovan, things felt blah. I didn’t even realize it until I compared it to what I’m feeling now.

Talking about my father isn’t something I do for fun, and I never share stories about him that make me feel sad. I don’t even discuss those things with Mom—she doesn’t even know the skating story. So, why did I share it with the man who can’t stand to be around me most of the time?

Is it because I was anxious, and I talk too much when I’m nervous? Did I tell him those things because I know once this is over, I’ll never have to talk to him—about anything—again? Or was it because once we were on the ice, I felt safe?

I dreamed last night, remembering things I used to want to do. Things I wanted to see … places I wanted to go. I woke up happy and inspired.

I woke up feeling like me.

“Are you okay?” Sutton asks.

Her words make me jump. “Me? Yeah. I was just thinking about whether I had any snacks to offer you.”

She laughs, standing. “It’s you, Georgia. Of course, you have snacks somewhere.”

“Let’s see what I have.”

She follows me into the kitchen, regaling me with tales of work that bleed into wedding planning. Then she transitions into potential honeymoon spots. She talks so fast that I can’t get a word in edgewise.

I pour us each a glass of sweet tea while she finishes her monologue.

“Oh,” she says, stopping only to take a sip. “Tate came over last night with Carys.”

“Hey, now. Don’t get cute on me. I’m the best friend.”

She laughs. “I know. Settle down.” She takes another drink, her red lipstick imprinting on the glass. “Anyway, Jeremiah and Tate went to pick up food, and Carys and I stayed back and talked. That poor girl …” She laughs again, shaking her head.

“What about her?”

“She’s getting trashed by men left and right. Her stories have made me chuckle all day. I told her she’s too nice for the men she’s trying to date, and that she either has to toughen up or find a new type.”

I open my computer and unlock it. “What’s her type?”

“Tate, but older and edgier.”

“Why doesn’t she just date Tate and put a leather jacket on him? He’ll be older in a few years.”

Sutton rummages around my pantry and pulls out a box of cookies. “She’ll never date Tate. And I don’t think Tate would ever date her. They’re literally the same person, except one has a dick. I think if I brought up fucking Tate, Carys might puke.”

“Okay, probably not a love connection then.”

“Definitely not.”

I open my email, and my heart starts to race. A message from an hour ago sits at the top of my inbox.

“I’m so glad I’m not dating anymore,” Sutton says. “I like this era of picking out furniture and wedding invites way better than⁠—”

“Sutton!” My hand clamps over my mouth as I read the rest of the message. “I got a job.”

“You did?”

I read the email aloud to her, bouncing on my feet like a child. “Sincerely, Todd Downing, Downing Enterprises.”

I squeal, jumping into Sutton’s arms and hugging her.

“This is amazing,” she says, pulling away. Her face is lit up like Christmas as she peruses the attachments to the email. “That offer is phenomenal, Georgia. The benefits alone would have me saying yes, even if I wasn’t getting that salary.”

“I know.” I glance over my shoulder. Yup, the email is real. “I’m just … shocked. But so happy.”

“And I’m so happy for you. I knew you’d get something as soon as the universe found a job worthy of you.”

I blush.

“I’m coming back tonight with cake. We’re celebrating,” she says. “But right now, you need to accept that offer and I need to get back to work. Don’t make plans for tonight. I’ll be here around six.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Love you. See you then.”

“Bye,” I say, watching her walk out the door.

The email is maximized on the screen, each word easily visible. I read through it again, just to be sure. It’s almost too good to be true.

Dear Ms. Hayes,

We are pleased to formally offer you the position of Media Relations Specialist. Our offer includes a salary and benefits package detailed in the attachment to this email. Your expected start date is two weeks from the date of receipt of your signed contract (also attached). Please respond by within ten business days.

In the meantime, please feel free to contact me via email or phone, should you have any questions.

We look forward to having you on our team.

Best regards,

Todd Downing

Downing Enterprises

I hit reply, but my phone rings in my bedroom. I jog there to get it, and after finding it on my nightstand, I pick it up.

There’s a text on the screen. From Ripley.

My breathing is shallow as I sit on the edge of the bed.

Ripley: Saturday. Noon. Work for you?

I stare at the words. Five words. Short and simple.

My brows tug together as I try to read his tone.

Is he mad? Busy? Irritated?

Or just being a dick?

Me: Okay.

His response is almost immediate.

Ripley: Love the excitement.

My fingers fly over the keys.

Me: I was trying to be succinct.

Ripley: I noticed. Why change your behavior now?

Me: Very funny.

Me: You sent five words, so I was trying not to take up your time in case you were busy.

Ripley: Don’t you want to know what we’re doing on Saturday at noon?

I laugh, sighing in relief.

Me: Nope. If I would’ve realized we were skating, I might not have gone. It’s probably better that I don’t know.

Ripley: Did you enjoy skating though?

I bite my lip, attempting to read through the lines. Does he actually mean skating? Or does he mean the date as a whole? Or is he asking how I feel about almost kissing him?

My cheeks burn as I decide what to say.

Me: I didn’t fall, so that’s a plus.

Ripley: So, you didn’t like it?

Me: I didn’t say that. At all.

Ripley: That’s what it sounds like.

Me: You can’t read tone.

“Even though I’ve been trying to do it for the entirety of this conversation,” I say.

I get to my feet, too much energy flowing through me to sit, and sort out my response. I don’t want him to think I don’t appreciate him going to the trouble of putting the skating thing together, or that I don’t remember how thoughtful he was about how he selected that location.

If he makes fun of me for being nice, I’ll deck him.

My stomach tightens as I type.

Me: To be honest, I had a REALLY great time. I never would’ve done it if it weren’t for you. I think it helped jostle me out of a funk that I’ve been trying to snap out of for a while.

Me: It was also very sweet of you to have remembered that I wanted to go skating. Thank you. I hope you had fun, too.

Ripley: You’re welcome.

I sigh.

Me: So YOU didn’t like it?

Ripley: You can’t read tone.

My lips twist in annoyance, although it’s borderline funny.

Ripley: I’m glad we went, too. It was fun. It would’ve been more fun if you’d fallen, and I could’ve laughed at you. But you surprised us both by staying on your skates and picking up the concept really fast.

Me: Would you really have let me fall?

His response comes right away.

Ripley: No.

I pace through the house. His response was immediate. No hesitation.

My heart tugs in my chest. “Why do you have to be so damn confusing?”

Me: Ever thought of going into acting? Because you’re pretty great at it.

Ripley: I learned from the best.

Me: Who?

Ripley: You.

I bite my lip and stare at the words like they’ll suddenly make sense. I can’t figure out if he means that he thinks I’m acting—which I am, but also, I’m not.

I don’t know where to go from here, and the tension gathers in the back of my neck.

Me: I got a job today, by the way. I start in two weeks. It might interfere with some of our filming, I’m not sure. I’ll let you know.

Ripley: Congrats. That’s great, Peaches.

Me: Thanks.

Ripley: I’ll see you Saturday. Wear sneakers and sunscreen.

Me: Will do. See you then.

I wait for him to respond, but he doesn’t.

Wear sneakers and sunscreen.

I sigh.

The devil just might be taking me to hell.

I hope I don’t get burned.