I slide into the driver's seat, passing a bouquet to Josephine.
"Aw, shucks." She grins, smelling the drugstore flowers. They were marketed as a summer arrangement. The sunflowers are wilted, and the peonies have brown spots, but it was the best they had. "You shouldn't have."
"They're for your parents," I tell her, removing another item from the pocket of my jeans. "But I got you a new fridge magnet."
She eagerly takes the magnet from me, examining it in her palm. It's in the shape of an old-fashioned movie ticket, with the words 'Smoke Show: Admit One' stamped across its face.
"I love it," she gushes, slipping it into her purse. I fasten my buckle, and turn on the rental car. "Although, you didn't have to get my parents anything."
"Rachel taught me to never show up to a dinner party empty-handed." I shrug, backing out of the parking spot. "It's been a while since I've been to someone's house for a meal. I usually just get a bottle of wine, but I know your dad doesn't drink."
She links her fingers with mine, kissing my knuckles. "It's very thoughtful, Brooklyn. Especially since you've made us late."
I roll my eyes, choosing to utilize the phrase 'pick your battles.'
After the rage room, Josephine insisted on returning to her apartment to shower and change her outfit. I should've known that would take half the day. I lounged on the bed while Jo flitted around the room, dipping in and out of her closet in various stages of nakedness. She'd wrap her wet hair in a towel and apply product to her skin, then she'd dress her mannequin in various clothes, rearranging the fits and accessories. As the hours passed, Jo would ask for my opinion.
White sneakers or kitten heels?
Braided ponytail or slick?
Gloss or matte?
Diamond studs or gold hoops?
No matter what I was doing on my phone—paying water bills for the ranch, or studying the blueprints for Senator Albert Wolfe's mansion in Pennsylvania—I'd always look up, and give her my honest feedback. Self-care is a healthy coping mechanism, guiding Josephine back to earth after her experience in the rage room. I didn't dare rush her through the process.
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So, yes. We're thirty minutes late. But Josephine is blaming it on my inability to keep my hands to myself on our way out the door. What can I say? She's a smoke show in white sneakers, a slick ponytail, glossy lipstick, and gold hoops.
And then, of course, there was the shopping. Josephine reigned terror upon the Upper East Side's collection of thrifts stores and second-hand boutiques. I stood in the center of each overpriced business while Jo flicked through racks, tossing dress shirts and pants and belts and God knows what else over my shoulders. She spent far too much money on me today, but I'm discovering I enjoy being spoiled by my rich girlfriend.
