Page 22 of The Lovers
Cash Kim (not his real name) comes in hot. He’s Korean American and a rising star at a major record label. He looks like a Gucci store threw up on him. When he waggles his tongue in greeting to Sean, I notice a glint of metal from a piercing, then immediately loathe myself for liking it a little.
They call themselves the Final Four, a nickname they coined at Princeton (where they all, inexplicably, graduated with honors), though I’m guessing they’ve also lost heaps in March Madness betting schemes.
“Did you see the fucking desert out there, bro!” Banks practically spits, slamming down a hard high-five-fist-bump combo. “Miles of dirt and dunes—who wants to sand surf?”
A nervous young woman dressed in the orange and navy uniform of the resort approaches the crowd of males, carrying a tray of ice-cold beers. Not champagne. Beer. A request that must have been made by the groom. The murder of men flocks, splashing piss-colored liquid onto the silver tray as they yank the glasses up in a toast to the groom.
“To Seanypoo, the first of us to lock one down,” Cash says with cheer.
“To Seanypoo,” the other men—including Seanypoo himself—salute.
“They’re fucking idiots,” Millie says, but she’s grinning with admiration as she watches the display of male bonding.
I’m scrutinizing the scene for all possible logistical nightmares that could (probably will) arise from the equation of this scenic, secluded desert setting plus this wild buffalo stampede of men, when Sean turns his attention squarely on me.
“You”—he points a meaty finger my way—“planned the bachelor night festivities.”
I see the knowledge ripple through the men like a tsunami-level wave. I step forward, putting on my bestbro in controlenergy, which is mostly just me puffing out my chest like a baboon in a dominance dance.
“Gentlemen”—I use this termsoloosely—“Bachelor Town will not disappoint.”
Pioneer Town, which—for the purposes of the itinerary—has been renamed Bachelor Town, is a local favorite for men and boys alike. Not sure which category these guys fall into, but we’re running with it.
“It’s got paintball. It’s got skeet shooting. It’s got s’mores and a bonfire pit.” The crescendo of affirming excitement is a symphony to my ears.
“Beer?” Tucker chimes in. I nod in an affirmative.
“And, for when you’re tired of running around and full on the buffet of brats, burgers, and twice-baked potatoes, there’s also first-person shooter video game…stuff”—Jesus take the wheel—“to play to your hearts’ content.”
Basically, shooting, shooting, and oh, yeah, more shooting, with a little wholesome campfire fun thrown in for variety.
The males are pleased. And with a kiss to Millie, the Final Four flop off in the direction of the bachelor’s wing of the building.
“I owe you big-time,” Millie says under her breath. “If it was up to Sean, they would have gone to that casino in Palm Springs and come back smelling of cigarettes, hungover from cheap booze.”
“All part of the Julia Kelley experience,” I reply, before catching myself. “Love, Always experience, I mean.” I’m giving myself away. Millie nods, not noticing the glitch.
“I’ll be singing your praises to all my newly engaged girlfriends. You can count on it.”
Joy ripples through me. Now all I need is the rest of the bridal party to arrive—and the women from my past to miraculouslydisappear—which is what I’m thinking when the tiny hairs on the back of my neck rise in high alert. My sense of smell is obstructed by the haze ofmaleand puddles of spilled beer, but even so, Chanel No. 5 and sunscreen tinge my nostrils.
Piper Cunningham has never stepped foot outside without both.
I inhale through my nose, not to take in the scent, but to fortify against it. I’m going to see her all weekend, and if I’m truly honest with myself, seeing her isn’t the worst of my problems. That credit goes to the girl who broke my heart into so many pieces that I’m uncertain if it ever mended. Millie’s eyes brighten as she looks over my shoulder, raising her hand to Muppet wave in that direction. Her lips barely move when she whispers, “The Odd Couple, anyone?” and then, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Ladies!”
Someone. Kill me. Now.
I spin to see the two women I once loved standing side by side.
Kit is a good three inches shorter, curvy where Piper is lean, and looking at me like I’m a jigsaw puzzle she is trying to solve without having all of the pieces in hand. Piper looks like she has one of Healer Arynne’s crystals shoved up her asshole—and not in a fun way. Her eyes dart from me, to Millie, peripherally to Kit, and then land in a neutral spot over my shoulder.
Kit is the first one to move.
Glide, actually.
She’s at ease with her body in the most annoyingly admirable way. But she always was, even when we were teenagers and no one was comfortable in their own skin.
My palm absently goes to the buttons on the front of my shirt and I smooth them down, then adjust the hem to make sure it’sfirmly tucked in, and touch the cold metal of my belt buckle. These aren’t nervous tics—they’re just tics…generalized. Good old-fashioned distractions from uncomfortablefeelings.
