Page 48 of Jacob
“Yeah.” He leans forward, placing his beer on the table, and rests his elbows on his bowed legs. “A woman died on the dance floor on Saturday night.”
“No shit?” I splutter out.
“Yes shit. Utterly shit,” he sighs. “Some fucking wedding that turned out to be for the bride. It was her great-aunt.”
“She died at a wedding?” I exclaim.
“Awful. That poor bride will be traumatized forever. Happy wedding anniversary, oh, and while we’re at it, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Fuck. That’s horrible. How did she die?”
“She had a massive heart attack while she was dancing.”
“And the family witnessed it all?”
“Yeah. They watched on as her son gave CPR. But she was already gone.”
“What was she dancing to?” I don’t even know why the fuck I’m asking that.
“Shania Twain’s ‘Man! I Feel Like a Woman!’”
Trying to stifle how funny I find that, I snort. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” I cover my face in shame. “I didn’t mean to laugh.”
“What a way to go.” Lincoln tucks his lips into his mouth. He thinks it’s funny too.
He raises his beer bottle, gesturing for me to lift mine. We clink them together and he says, “To Shania.”
I repeat, “To Shania.” I take a swig of the ice-cold liquid.
Laughter from the front door alerts us to Violet’s arrival home.
I know who that other giggle belongs to.
Skye.
“Hello, you two.” Violet bounces into the living room.
“How was pole-dancing class?” Lincoln asks as Violet smacks a kiss on his cheek.
Skye steps into the living room and my heart almost stops. Silver hair piled high, she’s wearing a pale pink crop top and matching yoga leggings, leaving nothing to my imagination.
Although, I no longer have to imagine anymore. I’ve seen her, every inch of her, naked.
“Pole-dancing classes are shit. I’m terrible.” Violet rolls her eyes. “And Skye landed on her head tonight. Funny as hell, though.”
Skye looks across at me shyly.
Well, this is new. How do we behave around our friends now? After what we did together? In secret.
Concerned, I ask Skye, “Did you hurt yourself?”
She reaches up to touch her head. “Yeah. I have a bump.”
“Do you have an ice pack?” I ask Lincoln.
Lincoln shakes his head, mumbling, “You’ve got it so fucking bad.” He pushes himself to his feet.
“Please don’t fuss, I’m okay. Honestly.” She rests her hand on Lincoln’s forearm when he passes.
