Dream On: A Rom Com

Instagramming

Lucy

This is a mistake.

I scrabble up the ladder, cell phone in hand, intent on capturing the moment as the afternoon light filters in through the skylight of my bedroom.

I never should have asked Deon over to help me choose an outfit for this ice cream thing we're attending. Too intimate. We're done with the intimacy portion of the program. We're friends now.

Nothing more.

"Maybe put the rose across the Blondies? That way the design is––"

"Not for this one." Deon's sense of design is pure instinct, but his instincts are on the mark. So irritating. Where he has an eye for the perfect shot, I have to jiggle and modify. Even after a year on Insta I struggle.

He circles the bed, peers down at the flatlay, my arrangement of goodies, on the floor. "How come you waited until I got here to do your Instagram thing?"

"It's all about the light," and I aim the camera at his head. Did I mention he's got Patrick Dempsey hair? The young Patrick. He's all gussied up for this eight minute dating thing as if he expects to connect. Bond over ice cream with sprinkles.

"You tried on this crap already?" He gestures to the bed where my dress, tops, and jeans lay splayed like a centerfold gone awry.

"No."

Deon is a punctual person, so I know my dabbling irritates him. Good. I get a kick out of getting under Deon's skin––so much that it's become a game. Forty-seven-years-old and I'm playing games. Pitiful.

What I'd like to do is punch him in the mouth. Kick-boxing is my favorite Monday-Wednesday class, so I know I could do damage.

He helps me down from the ladder even though I don't need help.

For a brief time a few months ago, my legs turned to marshmallow when he touched me. Now I want to grind his thumb is a vise. Or stomp on his big toe in my hiking boots and ask him, "How does that feel?"

Imagining ways to torture Deon keeps me sane, strange as that sounds. My hope is this period of adjustment––it's been almost five months––will pass. I will move on. I will prevail.

"Do you think this works?" I ask. We study the blush-pink scarf and the turquoise plate stacked with Blondies––pecan and white-chocolate brownies. The scattered seashells and a long-stemmed white rose.

Instead of answering, Deon reaches down and lifts the rose, puts it across the plate, trails the seashells in a circle.

"Perfect." I climb back up the ladder to reshoot. I can't let myself become dependent on Deon's design instincts.

Some day I'll be able to afford a Nikon or a Canon in the $1,500 range, when I have a real following, when my baked sweeties are in more local stores and restaurants. For the moment this works.

"The beach is my theme this month."

His gaze shifts downward to the plate of Blondies, and he inhales with a loud, exaggerated sniff. His favorites.

"They smell so good. When you're done, can I have one?"

I smile at him. "Sure."

A worried look crosses his face. "The thing. Starts in an hour, doesn't it?"

We are TWT. Totally Wrong Together. Ever since the TWT happened, our friendship has been edgy. And I never told Phoebe what happened, even though she sometimes looks at me sideways, like I'm picking on Deon.