Page 10 of No Place Like You

“But I think Grandpa had shingles when I was nine. I remember Mom told us we couldn’t visit the summer before fourth grade because he was contagious.”

Her smile deepens. “I don’t think that’s the kind of information they were looking for, but I’ll keep that in mind the next time a genetic-slash-lineage related question arises. Maybe for my eHarmony profile.”

“Hey!” Charles interjects, looking wounded.

Janet pecks a swift kiss on Charles’s cheek. “I meant for when you’re tired of me and want to date someone without a family history of shingles.”

5

Lucy

Seattle has beenmy home for almost five years. I took a year off after I finished my undergrad back home at Ohio State before I moved out to Seattle for grad school. I’ve made friends here, mostly grad school friends who were roommates and classmates, including Annabelle, who is still my roommate. I have a regular Starbucks I go to that knows exactly how I like my complicated caramel macchiato order and a mom-and-pop ice cream shop that sells my favorite mango-flavored sorbet.

I haven’t left, aside from an occasional trip back home or to visit my sisters in New York City, and I can’t complain. Which means leaving my home for three months is going to be a bit of an adjustment. There’s going to be a lot of missing my friends, Annabelle’s cat Jeremy, and the mango sorbet I can’t find anywhere else.

“To Lucy,” Annabelle calls, our shot glasses of tequila held over the bar top at Bottoms Up, the dingy dive bar a twelve-minute Uber ride away from our apartment.

“To Lucy!” Margo repeats, another UW survivor who joined me and Annabelle in the ranks as we drudged through a semester of organic chemistry before we tossed our caps in the air at graduation.

“To Lucy!” Alma, Annabelle’s sister, chimes in. Alma snuck into our little friend group a year ago after she moved out to The Emerald City all the way from Texas following a rough breakup. Though she shot down Annabelle’s offer to move in with us, claiming she didn’t want to go back to the days when Annabelle stole her clothes and they fought over the TV remote, she spends most evenings on our couch, joining me and Annabelle for takeout while trash talking her ex.

The three of them smile brightly in my direction.

“Mmm!” Alma exclaims through pursed lips. “Another round!”

I hold up my hand in her direction and carefully place my hand on her bare shoulder, where the strands of her lusciously bouncy curls brush against my hand. Seriously, I don’t know what kind of witchcraft she uses to get her hair that full and shiny. “Why don’t we take it slow?”

“Nuh-uh,” she argues, twisting at her waist to face me. “Nothing about tonight is going to be slow.”

“I agree,” Margo adds, the flush spreading over her deeply freckled face, making her look younger than her twenty-six years of age. “And you definitely dressed for the occasion, so we gotta take advantage.”

I peer down at my dress, the silky green material swishing against my soft skin and the short hem barely reaching mid-thigh. I’d almost forgotten I had it. But when I pulled it out from the deep corner of my closet while I packed the last of my belongings into my large suitcase, the dress and the last memory I have when I wore it came rushing back.

“And I did not squeeze my big ass hips into this dress for us to ‘take it easy.’” I look at Annabelle, her hands smoothing out her tight dress that clings to her like a second layer of skin, with an exasperated, pleading look. “I told you on the way over here,” Annabelle adds breezily, ignoring my silent plea. “We’re sending you off with a bang.”

I roll my eyes. I should have known. These girls would never send me off with anything other than a night of binge drinking and the hangover of the century.

Another round of tequila is passed around, and we all take our glasses.

Annabelle raises her glass and stifles a laugh. “This one is to Lucy finding a hot man out in New York City who’ll sweep her off her feet to his fancy penthouse and hand over his black Amex so she can spend all of his hot CEO money.” She pauses to bring the glass to her lips. “Oh!” she exclaims before adding, “And takes her to his secret sex room to tie her up with hissexropes andsexhandcuffs.”

I cackle. “Oh-kaaay, Miss Fifty Shades.”

She shrugs. “What beats a sweaty fuck fest in a high rise with floor-to-ceiling windows on the large glass desk in his corner office because he can’t wait to get you home to fuck you into oblivion on his ginormous king-size bed?”

“That is crazy specific,” Alma comments, a look of disgust mixed with a hint of curiosity on her face. She quickly adjusts her neon pink dress that makes her stand out against the warm golden tone of her glowing skin before collecting all of our empty shot glasses.

Annabelle sighs. “Not specific enough.”

I stifle a giggle.

“It just doesn’t beat the real feel of a man’s rough hands on your naked body,” Annabelle adds wistfully. “To be manhandled? And fuckingdominated?!”

“Okay!” Margo screeches, ducking her head and eyeing the growing crowd around us. “Why don’t we save the sex talk for when we aren’t in such a public space?”

We all fall silent.

“So what do we talk about?” Alma asks in a low voice.

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