Page 35 of Best Woman
Aiden and I grew up with basically everything we wanted, allof our needs met, clothes, books, and vacations. But the recession hit my mom’s real estate business hard, meaning the big house and its constant renovations are more about theappearanceof affluence. Dad taught middle school English for exactly as long as it took to retire and live off his 401(k). By the standards of most of the world, Aiden and I are extremely lucky. By Boca standards, we’re approaching Oliver Twist territory.
“I’m sure Aiden is excited about marrying into a family with…well, a moreelevatedlifestyle,” Rachel 6 barrels on. Her gaze alights on me again, and she really can’t hide the condescension this time. I can feel myself shrinking under her gaze, twisting inward in an attempt to disappear. “You must besoproud of him, Julia.”
The table has gone very quiet, and everyone is very focused on their clay. “I am,” I tell her.
“Although I’m sure all this is a bit uncomfortable for you, considering the circumstances.” Her smile is feline, predatory. I suppose that makes me the mouse. “It’s so sad that Jenna couldn’t be here.”
I feel very small.
“That’s enough, Danielle,” says Rachel. So that’s her name. Rachel doesn’t look at me, just gazes into her wineglass and picks at the clay stuck to her nails, wiping them furiously on a rag like some kind of Etsy Lady Macbeth.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, standing up. “Just gonna run to the bathroom.”
“The ladies’ room is just behind the kiln, on the right,” Stephanie says. Rachel 6 huffs. Loudly.
In the bathroom I run my hands under the cold tap, pressthem to my flushed cheeks, and lift my hair to fan the back of my neck. I haven’t met this kind of open hostility in a while. I’m used to the occasional knowing look back in New York—I can’t help but recall Lorraine at Born to Bride eyeing me in the dressing room—and an incorrect pronoun from a waiter or salesperson. But the antagonism simmering in Rachel 6’s eyes is more obvious and downrightnastierthan anything I’ve experienced in ages. On the one hand, it’s refreshing to know where I stand with her. On the other hand, it makes me want to get out of here as fast as I can. And there’s also the dark rabbit hole looming, that just becausesheis the only one being so forthright with her nastiness doesn’t mean the rest of them aren’t thinking it.
“It’s fine,” I tell my reflection in the mirror. She’s upset her sorority sister got axed and wants to make sure I know it. “It’s fine,” I repeat, wishing it didn’t sound like a lie.
When I’m done, Kim is waiting outside the ladies’ room. She holds up a joint, wiggles her eyebrows at me, and points to the back door, through which I can see an employee parking lot behind the shop. I almost sag with relief.
Outside, Kim lights her joint for us and takes a long drag. “Danielle is a cunt,” she says on an exhale, smoke curling around her face. She passes the joint.
“I honestly can’t remember any of their names, but I assume you’re talking about the one who made itveryclear she was ready to fight me on Jenna’s behalf?” She nods, but there’s no patronizing look of empathy or outrage on my behalf, which is honestly a relief.
“If it makes you feel better, she went to school with Rachel and me, and I have it on good authority that she once did somuch coke she shit her pants at a Halloween party while wearing an extremely culturally insensitive costume and spent three semesters known as Diaper Genie.”
I snort so hard I start choking on the hit I’ve just taken, and Kim starts laughing too, and soon we’re both doubled over next to a dumpster full of vases, mugs, and ashtrays that were never picked up by their creators. We pass the joint back and forth in comfortable silence for a few minutes, inching closer and closer together against the concrete wall every time our hands brush. Soon we’re shoulder to shoulder, and it feels like I can taste every breath Kim takes. She turns to look at me and her face is so close our eyelashes almost brush. She has really long eyelashes. Or perhaps I’m just really stoned. Her gaze flickers down to my mouth.
She’s looking at melike thatagain, and at least this time I didn’t have to lie to make it happen.
“This is really good weed,” I tell her, and then she leans forward andbites my lip.
Kim bites my lip between her teeth and sucks it into her mouth, which is a little dry from the weed and a little sour from the wine, but it still feelssogood. It takes a moment for me to realize this is really happening but then Idoand I kiss her back, moving my lips against hers until between us there is only slick wet heat. For a moment we’re just standing there, close together but not as close as I’d like, kissing lazily with an inch of space between our bodies. But then I let my tongue drift lazily into her mouth and shesuckson it, and whoever was holding the joint drops it and we grab for each other, my hands around her waist and hers tangled in my hair. We kiss and kiss and kiss, pressing our bodies into each other. Kim turns so she’s against the walland works her hands down to grab at my ass, and something embarrassingly like a whimper steals out of my mouth when sheliftsme upby my assso that I’m straddling one of her long, lean legs.
I feel feverish, manic, and out of control. Kim kisses like it’s last call and she’s convincing me to take her home, and I kiss back like someone who doesnotneed to be convinced. I run my hands up and down her arms, rejoicing in every new inch of skin and wishing desperately there was more to touch. Our teeth clash and she pulls my hair back, angling my neck so that she can move her lips to my ear, tug the lobe between her teeth, andbite.
Another embarrassing, humiliating whimper. “Fuck,” I gasp out.
“God,” she whispers in my ear, tongue following the breath of her words, “you taste even better than you look.”
Whimper. “You too, shit.” More kissing, more groping. Another turn so my back is against the wall. Her hand reaches inside the waistband of my leather pants to squeeze my ass.
“And you feel so fucking good,” she groans against my neck. Is thisreal? How is thishappening? Getting stoned and making out with Kim Cameron behind a strip mall is one of my most tried-and-true teenage fantasies. A younger, more acne-ridden me used to masturbate to the very thought of thisexactscenario not five miles from where we’re standing. Leaning. My legs are not working very well at the moment, to be honest.
“All I want to do,” she whispers in my ear, tongue flicking out to tease it on every syllable, “is take you back to my hotel room and peel theseinsanepants off of you.”
“It’ll probably be, uh, pretty hard to get them off,” I huff out.“It’s kinda humid and they’re like, stuck onreallytight.” What the fuck am I saying? Shut up! Shutup,you idiot. “I’d be all, like, sweaty.”
“Just how I want you,” she says and kisses me again. There’s no more talking for quite some time.
Eventually—and regretfully—I pull away. “We have to go back inside,” I tell her, ducking my head at the sight of her dark eyes, and her swollen lips. “Rachel is probably wondering where we are.”
She laughs, nuzzling her nose into my throat. “I’m sure Rachel knows exactly where we are and what we’re getting up to. We used to live together, remember? She knows what I like to do with girls like you.”
“Girls like me?”
She makes an affirmative noise against my collarbone. “Hot, long legs,easy.” It’s said with a curving smile against my skin but still comes out a little mean, just the way I like it. “Quiet, but in that way where you know you can make them scream if you try hard enough.” She raises her eyes to look into mine. “I can tryveryhard.”
