Page 30 of Just for the Cameras
“Aha.” I point at him. “So you want to participate.”
“‘Want’ is a strong word.”
“Either way, you are a yes.”
“I’m a ‘Let’s just get this the fuck over with so I can move on with my life.’”
“Great,” I say with a smile. “Then it’s settled, we’re starting a social media profile together to show off football and flamingos, and it’s going to be called Flamingo Hating Is a Personal Fowl.”
“That’s not what it’s going to be called.”
I move toward the door and say, “Come up with something else, and we’ll talk. Remember, I’m the social media expert here.”
He follows me but takes his leisurely time, letting me know that I’m on his watch and not the other way around.
“What social media do you manage?”
“That is none of your concern,” I say as I hold the door open for him, but he takes it from me, letting me walk through first.
Ah, look at that, maybe there’s a pinch of kindness in him.
“What are you hiding? Do you have some secret foot fetish account?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be wearing high-water pants,” I shoot back, and for a moment, I see a drop in his “couldn’t care less” facade. And I want to say that maybe I caught a glimmer of guilt, but that irritated glare fixes itself right back on his face.
“How do I know you won’t embarrass me on social media?”
“Don’t you think a little humility goes a long way?”
We head in the direction of the flamingos as he curtly says, “No.”
“Well, it does. Also, it’s not in my best interest to embarrass you because I need people to take you seriously. Serious people with serious money like to donate to serious things.”
“Couldn’t think of another way to say serious?”
“I was getting a point across. Can’t think of another way not to be an ass?”
Now his brows really shoot up, and I realize that I might have gone a little too far.
Nervously, I laugh and then clear my throat. “Um, anyway, I think we can make a pact that we use the platform for good, not for anything else, and we both approve what we post. Deal?”
I stretch my hand out to him to shake, but he just stares down at it. “What’s the name of the account?”
This again.
Groaning, I retreat my hand as we make our way to the flamingo building, and I just start shooting out anything that comes to mind.
“Flock and Tackle. Uh…Fowl Play. Two Can Play That Game, but Only One Ruffles Feathers.” He’s so unamused. “Foghorns and Flamingos. Feathers and Football. Pink You Stink.”
He shakes his head. “‘Pink’ and ‘stink’ should not be in the same sentence…at all.”
“Why? I don’t—” I pause and think about it, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “Oh, right. Umm…Flamingo Fiasco. He’s All Tackle, and I’m All Talons. Flamboyance Football. Pink Wings and Brown Balls.”
“Once again…no. Brown balls, pink and stink. Do you not see what you’re doing?”
I huff. “I’m sorry that I’m not as perverted as you.”
“Not perverted, just aware.”
