Page 8 of The Lovers
Pro it up, Julia. You could be psyching yourself out for nothing.
“Oh, um, we need to switch out her info in the dossier folder for check-in.” Smooth as butter.Not.
“Of course,” Millie says, yanking her phone out to pull up Piper’s contact profile. The pic attached is a tiny circle, but it’s still clear enough that I can see her face.
“Piper Cunningham,” Millie says. “I’ll airdrop this to you, Zoe.”
Piper Cunningham.
Loving her nearly maimed me. We tore each other apart at the end, said things we didn’t mean, and a lot we really fucking did, until finally, I said nothing at all. But I wasn’t lying when I told her I’d rather eat glass than ever see her again.
And that sentiment definitely hasn’t changed in the year since I lost her number.
None of them notice the jumble of feelings I’m trying to tamp down with a mallet of reason and self-control. Zoe confirms receipt of Piper’s contact info, offering to walk the couple out. Millie reaches in for an air-kiss and Sean hoots something about “go time,” but I’m not sure I really respond to any of it.
I drop down in my chair and grab one of the cans of sparkling tea and crack the aluminum lip, taking a long sip. I’m going to need something stronger—much stronger. I cannot let this throw me off. I will not let it. I’m a pro; this is manageable.
I will not freak. I cannot back out. There is too much riding on the success of this wedding.
I have to nail this even if it means I have to breathe the same air as my ex.
Chapter Three
Kit
Nina delivers a heavy pour of chardonnay to me as I sit cross-legged with a pillow over my thighs, my phone propped on top, swiping through profiles on Hinge.
“Hey bish, he was cute,” Nina chimes in, pointing her purple coffin-shaped nail at the screen where the cute guy no longer stares back. I slump against the velvet cushion of her vintage couch and let out a guttural groan.
“He was, but he also looked like a flavor I’ve already tried,” I say, gulping wine and making meaningful eye contact with my best friend. “You know. Vanilla with strawberries on top. That’s his vibe.”
“You like vanilla. You like strawberries,” Nina lists. Her dark brown skin is kissed with this golden apricot blush from Benefit, and she’s a got a dramatic neon swoop lining both of her dark, hazel brown eyes. Nina’s style is effortlessly artistic and utterly cool. She looks like she just stepped out of a Nike ad, but like, for the expensive kicks, not sportswear.
“And both get boring after a few big bites,” I reply. She cackles.
I don’t tell her the deeper reason for my meltdown. I can’t. Nina has been my best friend since sophomore year of college, when she transferred to Berkeley from some tiny liberal arts college in North Carolina where she grew up. She knows my bra size and my favorite book, has helped me through countless breakups—I introduced her to her talent agent, she introduced me to cheesy bacon grits. But she doesn’t know everything there is to know about me, even if she knows more than any of my boyfriends ever have. My heart does a flutter from my nerves, and I decide that’s enough of a sign not to push it.
“Vanilla with strawberries on top is not what I need right now.”
“You thinking more of a Rocky Road situation?” She gives me a devious smile. I grab my phone off the pillow, tossing the soft, fringy puff in her face.
If Rocky Road is what it takes.
I do like guys. I like abs and strong pecs. Arms that fold around me, making me feel small, feel safe, feel like the ideal. That is also anundeniable fact. I need to run my fingers over a chiseled jawline and feel stubble scrape my neck while he plows me until I forget my name and birth date—
Her fingernails scrape the cold metal clasp of my jean shorts, flicking them open.I feel the memory scamper through me with a shiver up my spine.
Fuck me. What I need is a solid distraction. Something that will push everything else out of my mind.
“Hey lovely,” Nina says, her tone gentle but commanding. I look over at her, gulping more wine. “You wanna talk about it?” She means the mom and dad divorce debacle.
“I really don’t,” I reply.
“You know that means you probably should.”
I know—and hate—that she is right. But thinking about the situation with Mom and Dad treads close to territory I am terrified to enter right now. Any question I would have about why Mom did what she did, or how she could, can also be turned back on me.Shut up, brain.Unraveling the notion that I can keep this thing to myself and still live my best life to the fullest is not in the cards—I’d know if it was. Right?
I settle on the one part of this that I feel safe to focus on.
