Take Me Home Tonight

“You aren’t.”

“I am.”

Harper shook her head and squinted at James’ handiwork again. They both had gunky while caulk all over their fingers, the product of an hour spent filling the gaps between sea green tiles on James’ kitchen backsplash. He was sealing the spaces while Harper followed with the corner of a soft cloth, ensuring no swipes marred the crystalline finish.

“There’s a spot,” she pointed.

“Are you serious? That’s not even a bubble. It’s not even a pinprick.” James could barely see the slight indentation in the binding materials she was indicating. It looked fine to him.

“I’m a professional, James. I you want to work with me, you have to be too.”

“But I work for free,” he complained even as he moved back toward the spot in question. “I even bring the beer.”

“Maybe that’s why you can’t caulk.” She nodded, satisfied he’d done it right this time, and moved on. They’d been side by side, arms and hips brushing as they leaned over the drop cloth on James’ granite counter and affixed the brightest, most exciting color of the whole house permanently to the wall. Unlike paint that could be covered, tile work was difficult to put up. Harper did not intend to do it twice.

Once again, James had insisted on helping. Harper’s perfectionist ways surprised him, and told him this part of the project was serious. It felt good to use his hands and earn her praise, even if her leaning over in a t-shirt all day had him thinking of other ways to do both. To fill the time, James had talked about anything and everything. It was a lot like taking Rachel out, discussing whatever came to mind. Only to Harper, James never glossed over the truth.

“It sucked,” he admitted, when she asked about being eliminated from the playoffs last season. “This team expects to win and when we don’t - it’s a big let down to the guys personally, but it’s like we let the entire city down. Their expectations are so high, nothing but winning even comes close.”

“Was it like that in Dallas?”
“No,” he remembered. “But that wasn’t great either, when people didn’t seem to think we’d even make the playoffs.”

Harper glanced at James, his tongue wedged into the corner of his mouth in concentration. She’d noticed he did the same thing the on the ice. “Which is better?”

“This.”

“And worse?”

James rested his elbows on the counter and turned toward her. “This.”

Her wry, understanding smile spread to James’ own face. She got it, Harper did. Even if she was new to hockey, James felt she understood the ins and outs of what the game and life required from him. That she assumed he delivered made him really, really want to.

When the second section of tile was finished, James reached for his phone and his the third speed dial button. Behind him, Harper laughed as he said, “Can I order for delivery?” James got his usual - chicken with broccoli - plus some ginger beef, snow peas, fried rice, eggs rolls and lo mein. When he clicked off, he turned to her. “Sorry, did you want anything?”

She threw the messy towel at him. James was always doing that - extending the day, keeping them together: “Let’s go to the store. I want to see the paint. I’m hungry.” At first she hadn’t noticed it, not the way she was now. Not since they’d almost kissed and Harper had wondered if it was okay to be around him, or if they were a bomb waiting to explode. The other night, when they’d started this same tiling job, James had suddenly announced he had plans. And seemed surprised about it. Maybe what Harper felt in him was loneliness, because James was certainly looking for company.

It was two in the afternoon when she left, and James headed upstairs to take a nap. He’d never expected to work on the house on game days. Yet here he was, picking caulk off his fingers before laying down, noting that the bedroom was still the same blank slate it had always been. It looked emptier than ever compared to the rest of the house, but instead of mocking James it promised that when every room was finished, this place would really be his.
____

“Hey, that was great!” Rachel clicked down the Consol Energy Center hallway in her high heeled boots.

“Thanks,” James smiled. “You look....”

Whomp. Rachel pulled him in and kissed him full on the mouth. James hadn’t been ready for that. He kissed her back, by instinct, then quickly broke away.

“Great, you look great,” he said. She did too - blond hair draped over a caramel leather jacket, something white and low-ish cut underneath. Skinny jeans rolled to a hem just above slouchy boots with medium heels. Nothing too outrageous, but nearly the perfect WAG blend.

“You remember Kristen.” Rachel pulled her friend in closer.

Kristen, James thought. He’d met a couple of Rachel’s friends at someone’s birthday happy hour, just a stop-by event where James had ended up leaving Rachel to her girls and going home alone. He didn’t remember a Kristen. “Yeah, of course. Good to see you,” he lied.

“Great game. It was so exciting!” The dark-haired friend cooed. Her eyes darted past James toward the hallway and locker room beyond. As at the bar when he’d met Rachel, girls were always looking for Crosby.

“Wanna get a drink?” Rachel asked hopefully. This was the second game she’s attended in under two weeks. The first had been a loss, easy enough for James to beg off as tired afterward. Yet he’d invited her again because it was the obvious thing to do: Rachel knew he had a game, where he’d be and when. Not including her was like saying he didn’t want her there. But he’d asked her to the Halloween party the next night, so....

“You know what, I’m beat. And we’ve got a big night tomorrow, so,” he lifted his eyebrows. Rachel’s hesitant expression instantly switched to beaming. Even Kristen grinned, like she was hoping to be asked along for the ride. “I’ll be more fun at the party, I promise.” James ended up in another full mouth kiss, this time with a hint of tongue, before Rachel strutted off toward the friends and family parking entrance. Kristen looked back once, wistfully.

As he drove home, James chided himself. Rachel was sweet and she hadn’t done anything psycho yet. He kept asking her out because - well, it was easy. Since meeting her, he had successfully stayed out of trouble and they had a good time. Well, maybe Rachel was having a great time. Maybe he was that awesome that minimal effort had maximum results. Or perhaps she just liked dating a local sports hero. Either way, James had learned from his experience with Meghan had he couldn’t just expect amazing things to fall into his lap. If he wanted to feel more engaged with Rachel, he needed to put forth some effort. When he got home, he texted again to say he couldn’t wait for tomorrow night.
_____

Harper’s hair was piled atop her head in a knot as she leaned heavily against the wine rack she was mounting to the wall in James’ kitchen. He’d chosen it on a whim during a furniture pickup and she had to admit the antique-style wrought iron balanced nicely against the modern fixtures of the room. It was heavy as shit, though.

“Want some help there, Jeanie?”

She looked over her shoulder to see Paul, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. With that thin smile he sure looked a lot like Justin Timberlake. “You know, I Dream of Jeanie?” he asked, pointing to her topknotted hair. He didn’t bring up the green tank top pasted her waist or chest after ten minutes of wrestling with the wine rack in a sweater. Paul also left out the perfectly fitted jeans with fleur-de-lis stitched on the back pockets and the escaped curl of dark blond hair that bounced delicately against her shoulder.

“If I could grant my own wishes,” she smirked. He stepped in and lifted the rack, allowing Harper to easily drill home the last two screws. They stepped back and admired the work.

“I should get you to do my place after this,” Paul said.

“Nope. She signed a non-compete,” James declared as he entered the room.

Tough to compete with that, she thought. James was wearing a white t-shirt with a v-neck so deep she would normally have considered it questionable on a straight guy. James was still a little too skinny, but he was tall and tan and it brought back a swirl of memories - him bare-chested, skin damp, wrapped in nothing but a blue towel that day she’d walked into his house unannounced. Not that she ever thought of that day. Or that the image was burned into her mind.

Paul clearly did not agree. “Dude, what the fuck is that shirt?”

“Oh.” James looked down. “Nothing.” He shot Paul a sharp glance and changed the subject to the new wine rack like it was the most fascinating thing on Earth. Exactly three minutes later, at the stroke of six, James asked, “Didn’t you have a dinner tonight?”

“Yup!” Harper dusted off her hands. She tended to lose track of time when working, an excuse that did not fly with Paige or Liam. “Thanks for reminding me.” She gathered her stuff and headed for the door.

“Hey, that’s not how friends leave,” Paul said. She laughed, accepting his open arms for a hug. Over her shoulder, Paul gave James the finger. Then Harper was gone.

“You’re a douche,” James told his best friend.

Paul shot back, “Says the guy wearing that shirt.”
____

James’ costume was dumb. Rather it wasn’t much of a costume, more like something he’d actually worn in Dallas. No Stars rookie escaped the first season without a cowboy hat and boots. Paired with some tighter jeans and a checkered shirt, James thought it was a passable outfit. He’d found a sheriff’s badge for the pocket and a holster with two guns that doubled as liquor shot dispensers. Those went into the belt empty tonight.

The Pens’ Halloween party was legendary, thrown every year as close to the holiday as an off day would allow. This year it was two days before Halloween proper. They bought out some bar, everyone came and no one skipped the dressing up. Hell even Crosby allowed himself to be photographed dressed like an idiot, so long as his face was covered. James was well aware tonight would end up all over social media, so his costume was standard-issue something he could look at in the morning.

When they were kids, he and his brothers did group costumes. All train robbers, all karate masters. One year they’d been the Super Mario Bros.: Mario and Luigi, a mushroom - Pete, of course - and Meghan had been their Princess Toadstool. James still had a printed copy of that photo in the drawer of his desk. He wondered what she was doing this year, if the Islanders had a party and if Tavares would be dressed as a research scientist or Where’s Waldo? or something lame. No one ever went home with that guy. James knew Meghan though, and she got what she wanted. Which was probably John in his street clothes and herself in nothing but his jersey.

Paul had left after borrowing a pair of boxing gloves James used for training. James was on his own to pick up Rachel, and drove across town with his ten gallon hat on the back seat. She stepped outside as he rolled up, and James knew it didn’t matter what he was wearing.

He’d seen slutty everything, and most of the women at the party would be next to naked. Still James’ jaw dropped a little as Rachel dropped into the low slung passenger seat of his Mercedes. Her thigh flashed - they stayed exposed, because her skirt was uber-short and green as grass. It was attached to a matching green sash worn across her body over a short-sleeve white button-down blouse stretched across her chest. Circular merit badges decorated the sash. Her blonde hair twisted into curly pigtails and a green beret was angled across her forehead.

“Cookie?” She batted a killer set of fake eyelashes and held up an open box of Thin Mints. James put one in his mouth for fear of talking instead.

“Nice shirt,” Rachel said, glancing down at his half-open plaid top.

“You look - wow,” James managed to say. Even through the cookie he was eating, James heard the genuine surprise in his voice. Rachel had always been very pretty, but tarted up tonight she could compete with any WAG in the place. James was suddenly nervous, and at the same time very, very glad he was walking in with her. It was so much more reputable than just walking out together.

The party was already on when James mashed his cowboy hat over his short hair and helped Rachel out of the car. Her white thigh high stockings ended in black Mary Janes, as demure as near-lingerie could get. As they walked inside, he felt every head turn. “Hey, hi,” he said, guiding her past people he hardly knew and searching for a familiar face. Finally Paul’s blond head appeared around the side of the bar.

“Paulie, hey man. This is Rachel.”

A moment passed, so long and slow that James was sure Rachel noticed. Paul just looked at him with a flat, hard set to his blue eyes. James couldn’t help but glance away, guilty.

Fuck.

“Rachel, it’s nice to meet you. James has told me a lot about you,” Paul lied. She responded appreciatively, obviously aware of who Paul was. She offered him a cookie and they did a brief rundown of Paul’s costume: long shorts, a white tank top with red, white and blue boxing robe over it. He had a heavyweight champ belt around his waist and James’ boxing gloves tied together, around his neck. It was topped off with an American flag headband for full effect. He’s like Tavares, James thought. Tragic. But like John, Paul seemed to do just fine around a beautiful woman. He introduced Rachel to Deryk Engelland and his wife, to Brooks Orpik and his date. It wasn’t long before the women were chatting away. Rachel stayed close enough, letting James get her drinks, as if she didn’t exactly trust him to be more than a few feet away. Maybe because a few feet in every direction was another naked girl. This year featured slutty meter maid and a slutty crayon and what he was pretty sure was a sluttly school bus. Every cartoon princess was represented in outfits that would have made their fairy godmothers cry. Even the waitstaff had on costumes: a kilted brunette with her shirt knotted below her rack brought them fresh drinks and a big, easy smile. Finally Rachel was invited to an all-girls bathroom break.

“That,” Paul took an emphatic sip of his whiskey, “is not Harper.”

“I told you, nothing is happening with Harper. We’re friends, we work together.”

Martin looked at James like he was slow. “Right. So who’s Rachel? Why have I met your friend, who you work with, and not the girl who clearly thinks she is your girlfriend?”

“She’s not my....”

“You brought her here.”

“She’s my date,” James said. “We met at a restaurant - sober, so you know - and we’ve been out a few times. She’s nice.”

“She is,” Paul agreed. “Hot too.” He wanted to say more. James watched the ideas pass across his friend’s face, the words form in his mouth. In the end, Paul just shrugged. “Whatever you say, James.”

With Paul’s words rolling around in his head, James circulated through the party. Rachel needed no help making friends. In fact after Paul’s speech, James noticed nothing but impressed looks from his teammates. He even consented to dance a little, after Geno hauled Rachel out onto the floor. By the third song James was having far more fun than expected, and decided to allow himself another drink.

Matt Niskanen was at the bar, and handed James a fresh beer from his own order. “Is that your - what’d you say she was? Decorator? The one you were texting?”

“No.” James tried not to sound too annoyed. “That’s Rachel. My date.”

Matt nodded. “First date?”

“No, um....” James thought back. They’d had dinner once, gone rock climbing once. Those were the only official dates. The happy hour was a group thing, and Rachel had been to two games but never out afterward. “It’s our third date.”

The words fell like bricks from a wall. A third date? James quickly did the math again. Even a respectable, regular guy could expect to possibly get laid on a third date. James and Rachel hadn’t slept together yet. But tonight? He hadn’t really considered it, at least not outside of the hot flash he got seeing her in that Girl Scout costume. Then again, James couldn’t remember the last time he waited till the third date - or made it to the third date.

Nisky clinked his pint glass in a toast and walked off.
____

“How’s your boyyyyyyyyyyfriend?” Paige rolled out her question like a red carpet to welcome Harper to dinner. She and Liam had a bottle of wine open and their menus closed, a clear indication they did not intend to wait. Harper hurried into her seat, a few minutes late.

“Still imaginary,” she assured them. “But on the plus side, he still looks like Chris Evans. James Neal, on the other hand, has a completed living room and kitchen, both of which he loves. Want to see them?” She broke out her phone and the array of photos she’d taken to record her handiwork. At the end of the project she’d take more professional photos for her website and portfolio. Harper liked to give everything a few weeks to settle, be sure she didn’t want to make changes. Besides she still had a ton of work to do on James’ house.

“Wow, Harp, these really look great,” Paige said Liam agreed. “Is this just everything you ever wanted to do to a house?”

“James has a lot of input. Or at least pretends to think before he says yes.”

The waitress set a wine glass in front of Harper and Liam filled it. “If I were him, that’s not the kind of ‘in’ I’d be thinking about putting, or the kind of yes I’d be making you say.”

Groaning, Harper turned the conversation away from Liam and Paige’s imaginations and to their real lives. Paige was working on a big case that kept her in the office late. Liam had a vacation planned for Cabo at Christmas and regaled them with the promises of an all-inclusive resort. Before long they were into a second bottle of wine and making plans for Saturday night.

“Halloween is my favorite,” Liam insisted. “No need to pretend you’re not checking out the merchandise.” He caught Paige rolling her eyes. “Don’t even - you’re hoping every guy dresses as a firefighter so you can start burning shit down. I’ve been out with your drunk ass before.”

“Well this year it is on. Or off. Depending on if we’re talking about my costume,” Paige grinned. “Harper, you’re still in, yes? No toilets to install or floors to sand?”

Harper smirked at her friends. No way she’d miss a Halloween, not even for James Neal.

Work, she corrected herself. Not even for work.
____

“Woohoo, that was fun!” Rachel said as she lowered herself back into James’ car, less steadily than before. Her pigtails were a bit messy from dancing and her Girl Scout beret slightly askew, but James could not deny that she was gorgeous, tipsy, and mostly naked. Rachel put her head back and smiled. James didn’t offer and she did not ask - he just drove to his place.

“Wow. Nice house,” she said the second she walked into the living room.

James stopped behind her. It was a sight to appreciate - Harper’s hard work and good taste on display. Just a few weeks old, it looked comfortably lived in but still fresh. Rachel gave it the nod of approval and followed James into the kitchen.

The backsplash over the counter was done. He and Harper had caulked and carefully wiped every tile. Now they glinted like sea glass in the recessed lighting she had installed overhead and beneath the bleached wooden cabinets. Gray countertops, blue-green glass, everything in its place. He passed Rachel a Gatorade from the fridge and opened one himself.

“This place is beautiful, James,” she said. Her tone was serious, as if she’d expected less. It seemed James had a real problem with setting his bar too low. No one expected him to date the same girl more than once, or bring her out to meet his friends. No one thought he’d put the care of effort into his home.

“Thanks. Still a work in progress.” With that he reached out and set his hand on Rachel’s hip. Her eyes met, heavy under her fake lashes. She didn’t need all the makeup to be pretty; James wondered if she knew that. He leaned down and put his lips to hers, tasting cherry Gatorade, feeling a familiar warmth spread through his body. Rachel turned into the kiss, her own arms looping around his neck. James might not do a lot of things right, but this was one talent he had. His weight holding Rachel against the counter, James closed his eyes and kissed her and promised himself he’d be better at that other stuff later.
____

In the morning, James remembered everything. He knew why the faucet was running in his bathroom, whose clothes were draped across the end of the dresser. Looking up he remembered this room hadn’t been decorated yet, and hoped Rachel hadn’t been disappointed the second floor wasn’t as finished as the first. He never wondered if she’d been disappointed in their night together - he knew himself too well for that.

It had been good. They moved together easily; fit the way two attractive people should. Rachel had a birthmark below her navel and red painted toenails. She touched his hair, which he loved, and said his name only twice: when he’d pushed inside her and when she came. No theatrics, no auditioning for a recurring role. James had been happy and satisfied and slept all night long next to someone else in his bed.

“Morning.” Rachel came from the bathroom, raking fingers through her once-pigtailed hair. It was a messy blonde mop, James felt proud for causing it. In her bra and panties, fake eyelashes gone, she looked even better than she had the night before.

“Morning,” he said. As he pushed up onto one arm, James saw Rachel’s eyes drop to his chest and arm, along his tattoo. Her lip curled into a smile.

“I’m gonna need a ride. And maybe a t-shirt.” She made a face and pointed at the green scrap of costume that had been plenty of clothing the previous night.

“Of course.” James hauled himself out of bed. “After breakfast.”
____

James dropped Rachel off wearing a borrowed Pens sweatshirt and with a kiss that felt as serious as anything they’d shared the night before. It was the first time they parted without concrete plans for a next date. Instead it felt assumed that they’d see each other again, no need to make an appointment. Then he hurried back home.

“Hey you,” he said half an hour later, showered and changed, as Harper came through the front door. She’d let herself in, something James realized she could have done at any point when Rachel was there. His stomach spun: that would have been weird. Good thing one girl left early, to her regular nine-to-five, before the girl with the unscheduled schedule arrived.

“Hey yourself.” Harper held up one hand, holding a bottle of red wine. “I brought a gift for your wine rack.”

“I’ll have to let Paul drink it, since he helped you hang it up.”

In the kitchen, Harper slipped the bottle of tempranillo into the top left curl of wrought iron rack. It gave the piece a function in James’ mostly unused kitchen. As she turned from the counter, Harper noticed the dirty fry pan still on the burner and not one but two plates in the sink. Instinctively she did a double-take. Probably Paul. But there were two glasses. Detouring that way around the counter, Harper saw the distinctive print of lips on the rim of one cup.

A girl.

Her heart skipped - and just as quickly, she felt stupid. A rich, hot athlete had a girl in his house? What’s next, water is wet? Yet Harper knew that glass had not been in the sink when she left yesterday. While she was joking with Liam and Paige about her imaginary dating life, James had been living his very real one. Her eyes darted back - the lip print was just gloss. Not lipstick, not something worn before going out. Something worn after. That meant another girl had not just been there, or had a drink there, she’d almost certainly slept there and woken up this morning. Harper’s steps slowed, her hand dragged along the counter as if trying to go back in time.

I don’t care, I don’t care! Her inner monologue insisted.

James didn’t notice Harper lingering, her eyes drifting back toward this morning’s shared breakfast. He was thinking that she always arrived with a gift - either some inspired idea or an actual present, like she was attending a party at his house. Like it was someplace worth coming over.

“I was hoping we might do the bedroom next,” he said. It had been on his mind since waking up. Maybe the view hadn’t been perfect, but he liked Rachel well enough. He felt a haste to make everything more permanent , before he could fuck it up.

Her filter still askew from seeing the lip-printed glass, Harper replied rather sharply, “I bet you do.”

“What?”

She shook her head, ripping focus from the glass and reminding herself it didn’t matter. Of course James dated. Still, a part of her mind was in panic. She couldn’t go in his room now, not when another girl had just been there. “I bet you are anxious to do your room. I mean, decorate. Your room. I think we should do a guest room first though.” It wasn’t true until she said it, but Harper latched onto the idea. “You know, see what you like in theory before it’s in your personal space.”

“Uh, okay. But you had a plan for my room - you drew that picture.” James still had the sketch of himself sleeping in his jersey between two nightstands, as if Harper had imagined James might sleep next to someone. Perhaps she wanted that to happen. Maybe it just had.

Maybe with the wrong person. The thought went through James like a knife. He liked Rachel, almost as much as he spent time telling himself he liked her. So what if his imagination was whirling, erasing Rachel and picturing Harper in his room upon waking? Already her presence in the kitchen was re-casting the scene as it had played that morning: Harper, not Rachel, eating eggs and drinking juice in her underwear. The idea was sharp in James’ mind. Sure, he hadn’t been ecstatic about taking Rachel to meet his friends or chomping at the bit to get in her pants, but that’s how nice guys were supposed to act, right? They were supposed to be cool.

He thought of John though, and the way he’d been around Meghan those first few weeks: sweaty-palms nervous, trying really hard, not caring so long as he got a little closer. It had been the dorkiest, most awkward thing James had ever seen - and it worked. James didn’t get like that around Rachel, but that’s just because he was a hell of a lot cooler than John. Right?

He made a fist with one hand now, looking at Harper. His palm was damp.

“I know,” Harper started to explain. “I just think we should start....”

“Sure. Yeah. You’re right.” James stammered. His pulse was racing, like when Neo leaned back and dodged those slow-motion bullets in The Matrix. What was he thinking, talking about his bedroom right now? What if Harper wanted to see it again? His bed was a mess, the sheets twisted. For all he knew Rachel had left something behind on purpose. It probably smelled like a girl, or like he and a girl had.... “I mean, it’s smart, starting with a guest room.”

“Okay,” Harper agreed.

“Okay,” he echoed.

The next few minutes were as bad as the moments after Paul interrupted their near-kiss. Neither Harper nor James could think of a way out. She assumed the awkwardness was her doing, James thought it was his. Neither noticed how the other moved or spoke, so caught up in their own heads. Harper went straight for a guest room like she owned the place. James thanked heaven he’d closed the door to his own room. They stood side by side, looking at an empty queen size bed, each thinking that the other person couldn’t possibly be thinking what they were thinking. Harper had imagined James sleeping in his bed. James had imagined Harper sleeping there too, mirrored on the image of that first day when she actually stretched out beside him, looking at his ceiling. If she hadn’t laid down that day, if he hadn’t taken the liberty of laying in her bed too, James wondered if he would feel differently about Harper. That very first day, she had made herself something else - something out of reach. Or worth reaching for.

“Yellow?” she asked without preamble.

James did not give a shit what color this room ended up. “Yeah. Definitely.”
____

It was so pale it as nearly white. Too subtle. James handed Harper back the paint square and looked at another. Brighter, almost searing - far too yellow for a whole room. He wanted to stare into it like the sun until he burned away the image of Harper laying in his bed, dark blond hair pooling everywhere, her skin just inches away. Now the sleeves of her sweater were pushed up, baring the same skin for anyone to see. It pricked at his consciousness, the way she shared part of herself so casually. He could never do that, let down his guard the way she never put hers up. When James did that he got himself into trouble. When Harper did it, she made people....

Fall for her. James stifled a growl and shoved the yellow paint sample back into her hands.

Harper sighed. The paint wasn’t the problem. She hated the idea of painting a bedroom in James’ house that would never be used, almost as much as she hated the idea of him using his own bedroom to do anything but sleep. It was not rational. A home was meant to house a life - including friends, family and even dates. Why did the idea of another girl in that space claw at her chest so hard? She was being an unreasonable idiot - which was no state for paint shopping.

“Maybe we should quit for today. I’m not feeling very inspired.”

James nearly wilted with relief. “Me neither.”

They agreed to take the next day off, since James had a game anyway, and try again on Sunday. He drove back to his place in silence and Harper hopped out of his car before it was in park.

“Hey, uh,” he said, trying to get her to slow down. The way she was running away scared him. Could she know what he’d been thinking? “Thanks for the wine. I won’t open it without you.”

Harper pasted a smile to her face. James meant he wouldn’t share her wine with some other girl. “Tough luck for Paul,” she replied.
____

Notes