Page 73 of Backslide
I must blush some kind of insane crimson, because Sabrina stands up and starts pointing at me with her reverse French-tip nail and, though she can’t get the words out because of all the crackers in her mouth, I know where she’s going.
“Shhh!” I say.
“Mmph!” she says.
“What’s happening?” Rita asks.
“Noah!” Sabrina finally blurts out.
“Oh,” says Rita. Then, “OH!” She leans in, eyes wide. “What happened?”
I motion for them to keep their voices down. The balcony Noah and I share is only one floor below.
“They hooked up!” Sabrina stage-whispers.
“How did you know?” I whisper back, mortified, but also a little relieved to have it out in the open. “Are you a witch?”
“I mean, yes, obviously,” Sabrina says, sitting back down. “But we didn’t know anything except that you both stayed behind—on purpose?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Definitely not on purpose. It was a total accident—and a mistake.”
They stare at me expectantly. I stare back at them.
“Well, dish!” Rita yelps. “C’mon. We’re old married folks. We don’t get dirt like this ever!”
“It’s not dirt!” I protest.
“Sorry, smut,” Sabrina says. “We don’t get smut ever. C’mon—what happened?”
So, I swear them to secrecy and then tell them the basics. And though I start out planning to censor certain parts, I wind up revealing it all.
When I describe storming out, Rita whistles. “Sorry, Nellie. But that is definitely dirt.”
“I’m proud of you,” Sabrina says, leaning over to pat my shoulder. “You got some! Also, I’m not going near that hot tub for at least forty-eight hours. That does not sound sanitary.”
“Yeah,” I scowl, grabbing some kind of candied nut for myself and stuffing it in my mouth—it is indeed fantastic. “Too bad he’s such an asshole.”
That’s when both women avert their eyes, look down, look away. A hummingbird flits by. Rita points to it like it might distract me from what’s happening directly in front of my eyes. “Nellie. Did we ever tell you about the time we saw like twenty hummingbirds when we were visiting my family in Mexico City?”
“Rita.”
“Yes?”
“You don’t think he’s an asshole?”
She presses her lips together. Shakes her head.
I deflate. “I thought we were Team NSA.”
“We are, we are,” Sabrina says, popping another olive in her mouth. “It’s just that… you didn’t really hear him out.”
“Hear him out?”
“Yeah. I mean, it kind of sounds like he was looking out for your best interests. I get that stopping was a buzzkill. But I’m not sure that makes him an asshole, per se.”
“I mean, we’re just two drunk witches,” Rita nods apologetically. “So, take what we say with a grain of salt.”
“A grain of this smoked paprika sea salt,” Sabrina says. “It’s to die…”
