I spot Laurel in the back of the restaurant, her hand flailing to draw my attention.
When I got back from Chicago, she wasn’t home. She spent the whole weekend out with some guy. Apparently, both of us needed a hookup. At least hers wasn’t with her archnemesis.
Smoothing my hands down the back of my dress, I sit across from her with an excited “Hi.”
“I already ordered. I hope that’s okay.” She lifts her glass of red wine and tips it toward mine.
“I’m not complaining. Food too?” I take a sip of the wine, and God, is it needed. Today wasn’t particularly difficult, and I didn’t see Beckham much except when I swung by his office to give him coffee, but I did write almost all day, so my body is feeling the hours spent sitting at the desk.
“Yes.” She giggles in a way that tells me that, even though I’m not late, this certainly isn’t her first glass of wine. “You always get the same thing.”
This is true.
The Italian restaurant is just down the street from our apartment and boasts some of the most authentic cuisine in the area. It’s a little hole-in-the-wall of a place, not somewhere my parents would ever be caught dead in, not that it matters. But I just know they’d judge the old tile floors and the photos that cover every square inch of wall space.
“What did you do this weekend?” I’m curious what my girl was up to.
She shrugs but wears a sly grin. “Nothing much.”
“Laurel,” I press, desperate for some juicy gossip.
“I met a guy on Tinder, we had great chemistry, so I stayed the weekend. That’s it. I don’t plan on seeing him again.”
I gasp, practically swatting at her in exasperation. “Why not?”
“I’m not ready to settle down.”
“Not even for another hookup?”
Her lips twist in disgust. “No. Do you remember that one guy I hooked up with for a few months? Justin? The sex was great, but around the three-month mark, he started getting clingy and acted like we were dating. I won’t make that mistake again. I just want easy fun.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having fun,” I agree, and I can’t help the twisted little smile that graces my lips.
Laurel doesn’t miss it. “Girl, what have you done—or better yet, who have you done?” Then she gasps, hands flying to her mouth as realization kicks in. She doesn’t give me a chance to respond. “You were with Beckham!” Her high-pitched shriek is loud enough to earn us a few looks from nearby patrons. “You fucked him, didn’t you? You little hussy,” she says in a more hushed tone.
I take a sip of wine, feigning casual disinterest. “Maybe.”
“Lennon!” She grabs my wrist. “First off, what the hell were you thinking? Secondly, tell me everything. Thirdly, do I need to murder the bastard?” She twists her lips, thinking. “Actually, don’t answer the third one. I’ll decide on my own once you’ve answered one and two. I can’t have you being an accessory.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” I admit, crossing my legs. My feet are aching, and I rub in vain at my exposed ankle for some relief. “We were in the bar, and I was pretending to be his girlfriend—”
She nearly spits out her drink. “Why were you doing that?”
“I was going to explain,” I assure her. “Anyway, there was a woman who was being pretty persistent with him, even when he clearly wasn’t interested, so when I showed up, he played it off like I was his girlfriend, and I went along with it.” I give a shrug like it was no big deal, because at the time it didn’t feel like one.
Laurel gapes at me, gesturing wildly with her hand for me to go on. “And?”
“We had a few drinks and slept together. It’s no biggie.” I smile at the waiter, then scoot my glass aside when he sets down our pasta dishes. The smell of their homemade tomato sauce hits my nose, my stomach rumbling in excitement.
“No biggie?” Laurel scoffs. “Not likely. I need details.”
“Well, I mean, we had sex . . . a lot of it, and then . . .” I fight a smile at the memory.
Laurel glares at me. “This is like pulling teeth. You better finish that thought.”
“After our meeting, we might’ve had sex again.”
Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. I think I’ve stunned her to silence. “There was no alcohol involved that time, was there?”
I reach for my wine, trying to hide my smile. “No.”
Laurel throws up her hands. “I can’t believe this. A part of me wants to cheer you on, because you don’t do this kind of thing, but the other part wants to ask you what the hell you were thinking. This is Beckham we’re talking about.”
I cringe a bit. “I know.”
“But the sex was good?”
I hesitate, inhaling a breath. “The best.”
“Well.” Laurel raises her glass to mine. “Cheers, slut.”
I burst out laughing, clinking my glass to hers. “Cheers.”
