I sweeten the pot because, apparently, I’m a black-market toilet paper dealer now. “There’s five bucks and a half-used tube of red lipstick in it for you.”
That got her moving. Moving right on out the bathroom door. Apparently, red isn’t Barbie’s lipstick color of choice, and she’s decided she would rather risk a bladder infection than get near me. If I hadn’t left my phone on the table like a potato, I could have texted Stacy and asked her to come bail me out. But noooo, I had to prove that I’m not obsessed with my phone like the rest of the world and leave it on the table.
Still, Stacy should be receiving my telepathic BFF distress signals. I’ve been in here forever. She should be worried that I’ve either been kidnapped or am suffering from some serious stomach trouble. Both of which would warrant an appearance from someone who claims to love me like a sister.
Stacy is also the reason I am having to be reunited with the man I hate more than menstrual cramps. She and her fiancé, Logan, were high school sweethearts, and after over fifteen years in a relationship (yep, you heard me right) they are finally tying the knot. I would be over-the-moon excited for Stacy if Logan hadn’t gone and asked Ryan to be his best man.
Although I think it’s debatable, Stacy says it’s customary for the best man to attend the groom’s bachelor party—which is what is happening tonight. Actually, it’s a joint bachelor and bachelorette party, because Stacy and Logan are one of those annoyingly in love couples who do everything together. They share a Facebook profile, order the dinner portion of every meal so they can split it, and even book overlapping doctors’ appointments. So it was really no surprise when they announced they were joining their parties together. We’re all having one fancy bar crawl, and I can think of at least one hundred things that could go wrong tonight. But all of them happen to Ryan.
I slip a laxative into his drink.
I squirt superglue on his seat before he sits down.
I set his car on fire. (Don’t worry, I’ll wait until he’s out of it…maybe.)
I could go on and on, but you get the picture.
I can’t, for the life of me, understand why Logan and Ryan have stayed close friends even after graduating and living in different states. Sometimes I wonder what Ryan has been up to this whole time, but I don’t dare ask Stacy because I implemented a strict “no mention of the devil” rule a long time ago, and I refuse to break it. Both Stacy and Logan know that even the slightest slip of Ryan’s name gets them put in the friendship doghouse for an entire week. Am I being petty? Yes. Absolutely. But I’m okay with it.
I’ve had twelve blissful years of Ryan-lessness. Well, almost blissful. That time, five years ago, when my fiancé cheated on me and I had to cancel my wedding sucked. Other than that, though, it’s been twelve years of success without worrying that Ryan will somehow swoop in and overshadow me. And if I could ever get off this toilet, I could go rub all my newfound success in Ryan’s face.
Thankfully, I hear the door open again, and I sit up straighter, determined not to mess up my lines this time. Fate is on my side as the woman chooses the stall beside me. Deciding not to risk it with chitchat, I cut right to the chase. “Umm. Hi. I don’t mean to startle you…but the thing is, I’ve been in here for a while, and I was wondering if—”
I cut myself off when a hand shoots under the stall wall, clutching a bouquet of toilet paper. “Yeah, yeah, here you go.”
Yes! Finally! See, now this is a woman I can appreciate. Soul sisters. Women who understand each other! I briefly consider giving her my tube of red lipstick and asking her to exchange numbers, but I decide against it.
Once all my business is complete, I emerge from the bathroom like I’ve been lost at sea for ten years. It’s good to be back in the world. Are the Kardashians still famous?
I make my way down the dark, slender hallway toward the bar. The music pulses through my chest, and my heels pound the floor with the sure strides of a six-foot-tall Vogue model on the catwalk rather than the five-foot-two southern peach I am.
Right now, I am all confidence—high on my own determination as I step out of the hallway into the trendy sports bar. I have no time to scan the room before I’m grabbed hard by the arm and yanked to the side.
“Ow! What the—”
“He’s here,” Stacy whispers loudly into my face. And WOW has she already had a lot to drink or what? I’m going to need to slip her a Tic Tac.
“Who’s here?” But I know who she’s talking about. I’m just getting into character with my false disinterest.
“Didn’t you get all my texts?” She sounds frantic. It makes me laugh a little because I know that even though this is our first stop of the night, she’s already a little tipsy. Stacy is a lightweight. And when Stacy gets tipsy, she turns into the star of a reality TV show. Which reality show? It doesn’t really matter. A drunk person is the driving force in all of them.
“No, I left my phone on the table.”
Stacy looks appalled. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because I was proving that I— It doesn’t matter. How long has he been here?”
“About five minutes. He’s standing over at the bar.”
Nerves zing through me because this is it. After twelve years, my archnemesis is once again standing in the same room as me, and I fully intend to squash him.
My little black dress is hugging my curves, and my loose-wave, honey-brown hair is tickling my spine. I’ve been saving this dress for exactly this occasion. It has a high neckline but low-cut open back, making it the perfect combination of sexy and sweet. The mullet of dresses, if you will. Business in the front, party in the back. Even better, the slender long sleeves cover almost all of my shoulder tattoo, leaving only the tiniest sliver of pale-yellow sunflower petals to peek out over my shoulder blade.
I take in one deep breath before turning around and scanning each man at the bar. I search. I search again. I search one more time because…“He’s not here.”
“Yes, he is,” Stacy says in a matter-of-fact way that gives me a sinking feeling. “He’s right there.” She points toward the bar, and I whip my head around to her.
“No. He’s. Not,” I say through my teeth. “I don’t see any ugly men with greasy hair and rotting teeth!” I’m doing that thing where I’m yelling in whisper form with a smile still plastered to my face. It’s scary.
Stacy doesn’t back down from my intensity. She gives a look that says this ends here and now. “That’s because Ryan is not ugly or greasy.”
“But you said he was!” I sound so desperate now. I’m seconds away from breathing into a paper bag.
Stacy shakes her blond head, and if I wasn’t completely freaking out right now, I would tell her how pretty her new highlights look. “Nope. You always assumed he was, and I just never corrected you.”
“Why! That’s the kind of thing that you correct a girl about.”
Her eyes go wide, and her mouth falls open. “You’ve got to be kidding me! The last time I tried to mention anything remotely complimentary about Ryan, you took my fifteen-dollar glass of wine and poured it into the restaurant’s ficus!”
I did do that. And I stand by it.
“Now! Like it or not, Ryan is here, and he’s not ugly, greasy, or unhygienic, so it’s time to put on your big girl panties and woman up.”
Right. She’s right. This pep talk was good. I nod my head in agreement, trying to get hyped like those football players before they run out of the tunnel. I feel a new adrenaline coursing through me—an electric shock to my system that triggers my brain to switch into high alert. Because suddenly, the game—or rather, the opponent—has changed.
“Which one is he?” I go shoulder to shoulder with Stacy as my eyes cut fire across the bar.
“The navy suit with Miss USA draped over him.”
Of course.
Of freakin’ course.
Chapter 2 June
As if he can feel my eyes on him, Ryan chooses that exact moment to look over his shoulder. The room tunnels as his gaze locks with mine. I inhale sharply, feeling punched in the gut. Gone is the boyishness of his face. Gone are the lanky arms and legs. It’s still Ryan staring me down, but Ryan the man. Ryan 2.0. Ryan maple glazed and covered in sprinkles.
When he realizes it’s me, he turns his body out to face me, leaning one elbow against the mahogany bar. The jacket of his slim navy suit protests at the strain and pulls tightly against his broad shoulders. He’s wearing a white dress shirt with the top button undone, showing a small triangle of skin that whispers he spends a good amount of time in the sun. His dark brown hair is mussed and wavy like tides in the ocean. Confidence drips off him and zaps all mine away.
Suddenly, my dress is too small. Too noticeable. I’m worried that the stick-on bra cups I’m wearing are going to peel off from all this sweat and plop down on the floor between my legs like I birthed them. Is red even my lip color? This was supposed to be my power outfit. My Trojan horse. If I looked hot and powerful, I’d feel hot and powerful inside. It’s not working, though, so I have no choice but to fake it.
I shoot out an invisible SOS to all the boss babes of the world and beg them to telepathically send me their strength. When Ryan’s mouth tips into a smirk, I don’t smile. When his dark eyes skim over me, I don’t flinch. And when he straightens to his full height, refastens the middle button of his suit jacket, and begins stalking toward me, I don’t drop to the floor and hide under the table. But I really, really want to.
“Oh, shoot! He’s coming over,” says Stacy. “Listen, there’s a lot you should know—”
“Shhhh,” I hiss back at her. “I have to use all my energy to look confident and irresistible.” I haven’t broken eye contact with Ryan yet, and although I don’t like that he just saw the frantic exchange between Stacy and me, I’m glad he knows I’m not running from him.
My stomach jumps into my throat as he gets close, and I think I might be sick. I hate that I was expecting Elmer Fudd, and instead, I’m getting Adonis. He’s closing in on me now, and so is the music, and the rapid pounding of my heart, and Stacy’s French manicure. I rip my arm from her dramatic grip and break eye contact with Ryan only long enough to give Stacy a look that says Don’t embarrass me! She recognizes the warning, because she’s given it to me often. It’s how we keep each other from becoming the next meme circulating the internet.
