Page 24 of Best Woman
“No, I just mean, well,” he laughs, “she hadsucha crush on you in high school.”
My brother loves me, but he loves to torture me even more. And now he’s potentially blowing my cover. I expect Kim to shrink away from me, but instead, she smirks. “I know.”
I snort some champagne out my nose. “Excuse me?”
She laughs, and actuallytightensher arm around my waist. “You weren’t very subtle. There was this one time I gave you a ride home from school, I don’t know if you remember, I think it was when we didA Midsummer Night’s Dream.” She’d played Titania, of course.
“Into the Woods,” I say without thinking. Her smile gets even bigger.
“So youdoremember.”
“Maybe.”
“This is incredible,” Aiden says.
“You’re so annoying,” I say, hoping to shift the attention away from my adolescent yearning. “Rachel, are you sure you want to marry him? He’s such a douche.”
“But he’smydouche.” She smiles widely as the rest of us laugh.
The happy couple must return to their duties and mingle with the rest of their guests. Kim keeps a hand on my waist as we move through the crush of bodies to get to the bar—there’s no way I’m making it through this night with champagne alone—and the heat of her hand through my dress feels so good. I just have to make sure not to burn myself on it.
“I’m soooo happyyou went with the Balenciaga,” River squeals.
“The black is a bit…witches of Eastwick,” Daytona rebuts. “Or Bushwick, I guess.”
“Can wepleasenot mention Bushwick,” Kyle moans. “I’m still recovering from last week’s K-hole.”
I’m locked inside a single-stall bathroom on an emergency emotional support four-way FaceTime. I’m not feeling especially supported. “Can we please focus? I’m in the midst of a crisis.”
They all roll their eyes simultaneously. “When are younotin the midst of a crisis?” asks Daytona.
“I don’t know, I think I had a good week sometime in April. But seriously,” I grip the sink for support and also so I can push my boobs together for optimum cleavage in case anyone decides to take a screenshot. “Aiden just revealed my very real teenage crush to the girl I’ve duped into paying attention to me. She’sgoing to realize I concocted this whole charade as an excuse to perv on her!”
“Can we make this quick?” Daytona says, across a small, messy room from her phone. I believe she’s staying in a punk squat in Atlanta. “I’m off testosterone blockers again and I’ve beenextremelypreoccupied since I got here. Last night I spent about six hours inside the sweetest little twink.”
“I thought you were in your daddy phase,” River says.
“I was, but then it turned into my mommy phase.”
“Focus!” I clap my hands like a kindergarten teacher at the end of recess. “I’m dealing with my actual, biological family members and their repeated attempts to ruin my life.”
“I don’t know, babe, Aiden telling your pseudo-girlfriend that you used to write her name in bubble letters on your binder doesn’t sound all that diabolical,” Kyle muses. “Considering the circumstances it’s almost, like, supportive.”
That’s perfectly rational, but after a glass of champagne and two cocktails,Iam not. “He’s not being supportive, he’s trying to embarrass me. And now Kim keeps giving me theselooks.”
“Are they sexy looks? Also, does anyone know how long I’m supposed to leave this on for?” River is painting bleach onto their eyebrows, a look I tried during my club kid phase and could never pull off. I’m sure they’ll look infuriatingly cool.
“No more than twenty minutes,” I caution. “And I wouldn’t call themsexy,per se. Although Kim is always sexy, so I wouldn’t be able to spot the difference.”
“You may have to accept that your embarrassing crush is not as embarrassing as you think, and this girl could be into you. Anyway, I need to get ready, I’m running late for a sex party,” says Kyle. He’s shrugging into a leather harness, silver glitterdusted on his high cheekbones. It hits me deeply how much I miss all of them, how much I wish they were here, and also how strange it would be if they were. My life in New York and the person I’ve become there feel light-years away from this bathroom stall in this lame bar in this claustrophobic little town.
River perks up. “Oh, is it the one in that dungeon in Park Slope?”
“No, it’s in the secret back room inside that fried chicken spot in Bed-Stuy. Wanna come?”
River squeals and they start discussing outfit options. I mumble out a goodbye and hang up. So much for moral support. I reapply my lipstick, sniff under my arms to make sure my nervous flop sweat isn’t too noticeable, and open the door. Rachel is standing on the other side. “Oh, thank god,” she moans, pushing her way into the bathroom and locking the door behind her with me still inside. “I have to peesobad and I had no idea how I was going to get this dress off. Can you help?”
It takes a minute, but between the two of us—me yanking up the stiff fabric of her dress, her wiggling down as hard as she can—we get her bottom half free and she squats over the toilet, sighing in ecstasy, but the relief is short-lived. “I want to know what you’re doing with Kim,” she says, eyes sharpened to a point.
