Page 3 of The Seven Month Itch
She’dstillhaunt me in the afterlife for not getting under a new man fast enough, but there’d be a postcoital smirk. “Tie yourself up in pleasure, not a relationship” is her mantra. She enjoys all flavors of men the world offers without the need to settle on one.
A gust of wind scrapes up my spine. Our friendship can freeze outside by itself. Where are thoseShiningtwins to take their first sacrifice?
“Did you have to pick a place below freezing for us to visit? The feeling in my toes is still back in Austin.” I pull my jacket against my chest for warmth, but it’s pointless. There’s no escape. Mr. Uptight walks along the plowed path with a gold-plated luggage cart and gestures for us to follow.
“Enough with the complaints, Jay. Is it too hard for you to say thank you?” Em breezes into the foyer on the stilts she calls heels and checks her Cartier watch like she has somewhere to be. “By the way.” She turns to me. “You only have thongs to wear while you’re here. Thank me later.”
I’m sorry,what?A tundraandbooty floss. The thing will grow icicles by the time I peel it from my crack. “Emma!” I say in a stage whisper.
Her leather heels screech to a halt on the wide plank floor. She raises a hand and levels me a stare.Here it comes. “Save it, your majesty. You had months to move on. You don’t want your man back—or so you say—fine. Jay, you’re cranky. You need dick—good dick—to knock those cobwebs off that coochie before it closes up for good.”
Good dickreverberates through the immaculate lobby. Heads turn to stare at the woman who hasn’t had sex in months.
Me.
Pay no attention to the lady in Prada with the mouth of a trucker, folks. What you see is what you get. My face is numb, but my cheeks aren’t red from the cold.
Kill me now.
So it’s been a minute since I had sex. Seven months, one week, and four days to be exact, but who’s counting? Do I miss it? Of course. Is it necessary for everyone to know my neglected vagina is about to go on life support? Nope, it’s not.
Seven months isn’tthatlong. Is it?
She cuts me off again. “I make no apologies for who I am. Now pick your jaw up from the floor so we can check in.” It’s pointless to argue. I grab her arm in a rush and follow the bellperson with a knotted stomach in tow.
I stumble when we turn a corner and enter the great room.Holy shiplap!I died and went to HGTV heaven. This resort is all about luxury and doesn’t pull any punches.
Windows stretch to the angled ceiling, which has too many exposed beams to count. There are three stone fireplaces with mantels draped in garland. Clusters of tufted sectionals and oversize chairs in a palette of creams and taupes invite guests to the warming stations. I don’t know whether to grab a novel from one of the bookcases or prep for high tea.
“Give it to me.” The corners of Emma’s mouth curl in triumph.
I roll my eyes and bite back a smile. “You were right. Thank you.”
Check-in is a breeze, with no signs of hedonism, and I thank God for small favors. A nap, a good meal, and a thick pair of wool socks are at the top of my scavenger hunt list.
The front desk attendant hands us our key cards. “You’re in one of our grand suites on the seventh floor, which should accommodate your every need.”
“Does that include a mountain man with a giant—”
“Tool belt!” I cover Emma’s mouth and flash a smile. “She has a love for flannel and appreciates skilled tradespeople.” Wrong answer.
She rips my hand from her face. “Yes, this one needs someone to snake her drain.Deep.Send him up with the thickesttool belt.”
God, it’s me again. Where is my friend’s off switch?
We stumble to the elevators next to the desk, out of view of the attendant, who has turned an impressive shade of white. “Can wepleaseput the peen talk on hold until we get upstairs?“ I push the button in a huff.
Emma meets my eyes and sighs. “Okay. No more dick talk for today.” She motions to me. “Just do me a favor and dosomethingwith that hair and that outfit when we get upstairs.”
I frown and look down. Black jeans, a khaki-colored knit sweater, and black motorcycle boots. Did she expect New York Fashion Week after she gave me two minutes to change out ofmy PJs? If she wanted a “moment,” as she calls it, she should’ve picked out my clothes while she packed my suitcase.
She ignores my glare. “There’s a kickoff mixer tonight. I need more from you than that ‘don’t touch me, I’m on my period’ outfit. It’s fine for riding a plane—but not a man.”
I don’t pretend to take offense. Emma is the senior creative director of a luxury lingerie company. They sell crotchless panties that cost more than the GDP of a small country. The Kardashians look like nuns compared to the people she’s around on an average day. My friend stands tall in six-inch stilettos, ready for the runway and not the snow. Her crimson blouse plunges to her cleavage, which gold chains hover over in a sultry trail to black leather pants that grip her hips.
“You never know who you’ll meet here.” Her voice trails off to a place far away, one I’d like to be instead of at this singles’ retreat. Back home, in my queen-size bed, safe from stranger danger and mounds of ice.
A side glance at Emma’s hand to her throat draws my brows together. Does she need the Heimlich? I follow her line of sight and freeze.
