Dream On: A Rom Com

Coming Over

Deon

Deon is in his study scrolling through Lucy's Instagram feed, killing time before he has to leave for that lame excuse of a social event when Lucy's call comes through.

"Will you come over and help me choose what to wear?" Her tone is urgent even though she couches it in her bouncy, isn't-this-fun Lucy voice.

He squints at the screen. She's even got shots of her seventh grade students digging in the tiny garden they planted for their farm-to-table science project at the back of the school.

"I'm on your Insta feed. Your kids did a great job with––"

"Thanks. That was the last month of school, and you're finally noticing? So, can you? Come over?" The bouncy voice is gone, replaced by edgy. Funny, she never used to be edgy.

Coming Over activates visions of her bedroom, the clothes she'll have spread all over the bed, her Chanel No. 5 on the dresser, the sweet scent of her. The last time he spent any time in her bedroom was five months ago, for about twenty minutes while she changed clothes before going back to his place.

He doesn't want to activate anything. And yet....

"Have to shave, give me a few minutes," he grunts into the phone. They both live in East Rock, a neighborhood of former mansions and hundred year- old, one-family houses with flower beds and large wrap-around porches. "You want to go together tonight?" She's already disconnected.

The more he fixates on the speed dating thing, the lamer it sounds. To get out of it, Deon would have to fabricate an uber excuse and Phoebe, who's in charge of the event, would be pissed. He'll get through it if he has to grit his teeth and hang on to his socks.

Besides, school's out for summer. Relax, you idiot, he tells himself on the drive over, puts the top down on the old Corvette and pulls into Lucy's driveway. No humidity, and there'll be a breeze by the Branford shoreline. The perfect day. Except for the part where he'll be schmoozing strangers with agendas.

His agenda is to survive. Speed dating. What idiot invented that concept?

Lucy opens the door, phone in hand, and sprints up the stairs, yelling she's in the middle of something. He glances into the kitchen, sniffs, then investigates. Lifts the lid on the panda, inhales the heavenly scent of her Blondies, considers helping himself and decides against it. Later.

Upstairs, Lucy has started picking through her clothes, and Deon knows better than to question why she has such trouble with small, insignificant decisions.

She's on the ladder, shooting one of her arrangements, as he calls it, a plate of Blondies on a scarf with some shells and other stuff. What was the big rush, anyway?

He glances around the bedroom, checking for anything new. They like to compare thrift store finds and occasionally hunt together, sometimes with Phoebe. Their last find was a small desk Lucy converted into a dressing table. It sits in the corner, pale gray with a sheen of silver, a tribute to her willingness to be adventurous.

"Deon?" She's holding the camera, waving him over, and he takes a look, bends and rearranges the flower and the shells. As she steps down the ladder, he holds out a hand to help her, but she waves him off.

"So why the Instagram thing now when we have to leave?" As soon as he blurts them out, he wants to take back the words. On the other hand, if he keeps her busy, maybe she'll trash the speed dating thing in favor of––

Too late. She's already into the closet.

Then Lucy appears before him in white fitted pants and a flowy top. "All white. Is it too much?" He can almost see her skin through the gauze. Is that gauze?