Well, it’s the morning after the Mother Mary incident, and I feel like a total fool. I did not handle any of that well. First off, spilling my guts to a stranger. Not smart. Then inviting said stranger to a party before finding out she’s the mother of the man I’ve been lusting after. Not great. Then after I stir up that proverbial hornet’s nest, I ditch. Really not cool.
There’s no way that Jackson will ever want to see me again. I’m pretty sure last night I became his dating horror story, and we aren’t even dating. Some night in the future, he’ll be out with friends and everyone will start to tell stories about bad dates they’ve had. Then Jackson will chime in about the time some chick got drunk with his mom and invited her to his party, only to leave him there to pick up the pieces. Yep, time for me to just roll over the edge and drop into my spinster grave. I should probably invest in a pile of cats while I’m at it.
There’s a knock at the door followed by, “Open up, bitch!”
Trudging across the floor, I take a deep breath to help clear my mind.
The knock comes again and for the first time this morning, I smile.
“Patience, woman!” I call out as I flip the lock.
Opening the door, my friend Meghan whirls in, a cloud of curls and sugar-scented air surrounding her.
Meghan has a larger than life personality and a heart to match. Her long red hair reminds me of a feral princess. The large wavy mass always looks amazing, even though she claims to hate it. When she’s in work-mode she’s all professional, but when she’s not, her inner hippie-slut comes out to play. Her words not mine. I’ve seen her in everything from tie dye hoodies to strapless dresses that leave nothing to the imagination. Meghan has the curves to match her oversized chest, and she knows how to flaunt them. Today she’s dressed down in emerald leggings, a large grey knitted sweater, and her signature feather earrings. She’s wide awake, exuding confidence, and she’s the only reason I’m even out of bed. Today is our monthly Sunday brunch. We switch off who hosts, and today it’s at my house.
I have a classic egg bake going in the oven and a large pot of coffee ready for consumption. Meghan has brought her bubbly self and what looks to be a homemade coffee cake. If I didn’t love her for her, I’d love her for her cooking and baking skills. That girl has a gift. And she knows, better than most, that carbs cure all.
“Okay, so I gotta be honest, Katelyn – I have no idea what any of your cryptic texts meant last night. But I did bring the goods.” Putting the coffee cake on the counter, she digs into her giant purse and pulls out a bottle of champagne. “So, let’s fill up our plates and toast to whatever insanity you’re about to rain down on me.”
I can’t help but grin at her preparedness. “I hate to be the downer here, but I don’t think I deserve to day drink after last night. Also, I don’t have any orange juice.”
“Okay, so fuck mimosas. We can drink this straight up, like the ballers we are. And what do you mean you don’t deserve it? Unless you spent last night drowning kittens, or replying to dick pics on Tinder, I think you’re fine.”
Her use of the word Kitten has me cringing inwardly, but her examples have me outwardly cringing. “Good gourd. I wasn’t doing either of those things, obviously. And I don’t even have a Tinder account.”
She rolls her eyes. “I know. But you should get one.”
“Why, so I can spend my nights looking at unsolicited dick pics?”
“First off, every dick pic is unsolicited. And secondly, you should get online. Maybe then you can meet someone that has a dick. And maybe you can see it in person. And if you’re really lucky, maybe you can even touch it.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me.
“Okay, wow. It’s too early for this much dick talk.” Pulling the egg bake out of the oven I decide to just go for it. “Besides, I was with a guy last night. And the night before.”
“What?!” Meghan screeches so loud I have to suppress a wince. “Um hello, best friend here. When were you planning to tell me about this guy? Before the wedding or after?”
“Oh, please, dramatic much? And it wasn’t like that. I met him at my cousin’s political fundraising-party-thing the other night. And then . . .” I stop. I was going to say and then I went to his game but that’s a whole big thing to explain on its own. I mean this is Meghan, we tell each other everything, I’m going to tell her about Jackson. Plus, she’ll be able to help me sort out where to go from here. If there is anywhere to go. But just blurting out the whole game thing seems like I’m jumping ahead. Ugh. This dilemma needs coffee. I grab two mugs and pour us some of the liquid gold. Handing Meghan her mug, I look up and see she is staring at me like I stripped naked inside a grocery store.
“What?” I ask her.
Her eyes go even wider. “What the hell did I just witness?”
“Huh?”
“You stopped mid-freaking-sentence, and just stood there. And now you calmly hand me coffee as if you didn’t just slip into the twilight zone. Are you okay? Did that guy hurt you or something?”
“What? No! He’s great. He’s really great.” Running my hand up and down my face, I’m thankful we don’t bother with makeup for these brunches. “It’s just that the last two days are a long story.”
“Okay, well, it’s a good thing we have all day. You met him at the party . . .” she trails off.
“Yeah, I was about to leave for the night, but then I spotted Bradley.”
“Gross! Did you go punch him in the testicles?”
That makes me smirk. “No. I hid from him. He was with some chick.”
“Hid, like behind the curtains?” I can tell she’s trying not to laugh. It’s not working.
“No, dummy, I snuck down into the basement. Er, lower level. I was hoping there would be a room for me to hide out in.”
Meghan lights up. “Ooooo, was it a sex room?”
“That’s what I thought!” I’m relieved that I’m not the only person whose mind would go there. “Sadly, no sex room. But I did walk into this magical little library. I got sidetracked drooling over the books so I didn’t hear it when Jackson appeared out of nowhere. He scared the shit out of me. Like – I think I screamed.”
“Jackson? Is this the guy you’ve been with?”
“Yeah. It was his place.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . his place? Didn’t you say it was gonna be at some athlete’s house?” Meghan gasps, answering her own question. “Wait… Jackson? Was it Jackson Wilder?!”
“Umm, yeah, actually. How do you know that name?”
“How do I . . . ?” Meghan’s hands are in the air, waving around, as she talks. I don’t know if it’s excitement for me or exasperation with me that has her this riled up. “Did you NOT know who Jackson Wilder was?”
As I shake my head, she laughs so hard she has to cross her legs.
“Oh my god, girl! Go back, tell me everything.”
So, I do.
