Harper laughs. “Sweetie, I think Malone might know.”
I flinch. “How? Also, there’s nothing to know.”
Harper nods, still grinning. “Right. Got it.”
“I mean it. There’s nothing to know.”
“Of course.” She winks. “Sure. Nothing at all to know. And don’t worry. I bet Malone doesn’t have the astute power of observation that comes with ovaries.”
“And yours is the most astute,” Nick says to her.
But they’re wrong. I don’t have feelings. Not in the deep, emotional sense. Those don’t interest me. Never have, since I’ve seen where they can lead.
All I truly feel is lingering lust.
And I can set that aside easily.
I may love sexy-flirting with Truly, but this new arrangement has to come first.
8
From the pages of Truly’s Drink Recipe Book
That One Time:
Gin
Homemade red pepper lemonade
Cucumbers
You can still remember the way he looked that night. Cool and casual with five-o’clock shadow stubble. The way he smiled, the way he laughed—full of the connection you’ve shared with him for ages. Hell, for years. The connection you tried to deny, to ignore.
But then one weekend, you went away.
And that seemed to unlock all those crazy desires.
Caution fell to the wayside, and you gave in.
The next morning, you agreed it couldn’t happen again. But still, you keep lingering on that one time. That time you try and try to forget.
Doesn’t always work though.
When the going gets tough, when the forgetting becomes harder, there’s only one drink that’ll do the trick.
Start with gin to blur the memories and add your homemade red-pepper lemonade for that sweet oblivion. You’ll get there eventually.
Someday. Maybe someday soon.
9
As I tug on a pair of running shorts the next morning, I review my notes from a best man who’s hired me for a speech. Committing the basics to memory, I head out, hit the park, and peel off four miles on the pavement and the skeleton draft of a toast in my head.
When I cool down, I spot a familiar figure on the path ahead of me, the spitting image of Michael B. Jordan—lucky bastard. He’s power walking around the edge of the park, a knee brace hugging his leg. “Hey, tortoise! You still walking, not running?”
My friend Walker turns around and waves dismissively at his offending joint. “You try running when you’ve blown out a knee.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? That’s not the thing you want blown.”
“Thanks for the reminder. I’ve been missing your unparalleled life advice.”
I walk by his side. “What have you been up to? I haven’t seen you on the wedding circuit much recently. Used to run into you at every other ceremony, it seemed.”
He raises his arms toward the sky. “As God is my witness, I’ve finally started cutting back.”
I gesture to his limbs. “Careful there. Don’t want to injure your elbow too.”
He shoots me a glare. “You do know you won’t always be thirty?”
“True. But I’ll always be ten years younger than you.”
“And ten times the smart-ass.”
“Probably true there too. But seriously, are you finally spinning records in a club, like you wanted?”
“Landed a semi-regular gig at a place in the Meatpacking District. And they don’t make me play ‘Macarena’ or ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody.’”
I shudder. “Least favorite wedding reception songs ever. Wait, no, that’s ‘Dancing Queen.’”
