That shitty thing? “Yeah, that works, I guess.” Although we live in the city, so where the fuck would any of us put it? Phillip keeps it at his parents’ place. They have a farm just outside the city, and every so often, we go out for a guys’ weekend and ride the ATVs through the fields.
“Season tickets, a four-wheeler, and…” Phillip looks to Blaine. “What are you going to throw in?”
Blaine shrugs. “My timeshare?”
He has a timeshare? Random. “Where is it?”
“Myrtle Beach. It’s no Hawaii, but it gets the job done.”
Phillip pulls a face. “Winner takes all?”
I nod. “Yup. Winner takes all.”
I glance from him to Blaine, who is furiously tapping out a message, fingers moving wildly over his cell phone screen at an alarmingly rapid pace.
“Dude, what are you doing?”
“Breaking up with Bambi.” The tip of his tongue is actually sticking out of his mouth he’s concentrating so hard.
“And I’m texting my sister about the smoking jackets. Navy.” Phillip glances down at his phone then glances up. “What size suitcoat are you assholes?”
“Extra-large, duh.” I box out, squaring my broad shoulders. I work out every goddamn day for this body—how is it not obvious I’m an XL? I sit up straighter. “Phillip here looks like a ladies’ medium.”
“Shut up, dickhead. I’m a large.” He chews on a mouthful of nuts, a grin slowly taking up real estate on his entire face. “I think we need a pledge.”
“Fantastic idea.”
Phillip stares at the ceiling, centuries old and covered in a rich cherry wood. Sits up and clears his throat. “I, (state your name), do hereby agree never to break the rules set forth by the Bastard Bachelor Society, formed on this day, September fifteenth…”
3
Abbott
“I, Abbott Margolis, do hereby promise to never again eat another donut with custard in the center, on this day, September fifteenth.” I slouch my shoulders and groan. “I feel like I’m going to vomit all over my new sweater.”
“There you go, being all sexy again.” My best friend Sophia laughs, swiveling on the stool in the coffee shop to face me. It’s the middle of the afternoon, but I haven’t seen her in days, and we both stole an hour from our work day to meet. “Here, wipe the drool off your face—you have schmear in the corner of your mouth.”
Yeah, I’m a real prize, snacking on a donut I promised myself I wasn’t going to eat. But it’s round, filled with goo, and has white frosting and pink sprinkles…so cute and yummy it was practically calling my name from the bakery case, and I’ve been eating so healthy lately I felt I deserved a treat.
Water and fruit? Meh.
Donuts and coffee? Yes, please.
“I can’t help it—the sex appeal oozes out of me like this cream filling. It’s going to ooze right out of me later when I get home and can finally unbutton these pants.”
Sophia laughs again. “How are you single? You’re a prime catch.”
I can’t tell if she’s being serious or sarcastic, but yeah—damn right I’m a prime catch! Too bad I live in a city where prime catches lurk around every corner. Some with bigger boobs, some with better hair. Bigger personalities, fewer evil cats.
I shrug. “Because I only hang out with you? And other women. Come on—what guy wants to approach a gaggle of girlfriends out in public?”
We’re an intimidating bunch when we’re at a bar for drinks: loud, obnoxious, and out for a good time—not to pick up men. Well, they’re not. I occasionally am, but I’m the only one who’s single (and ready to mingle), despite the bloat in my stomach and the oozing goop coming from the corner of my mouth.
It’s a lovely mouth, I’ve been told. Pink and perfectly shaped. Full bottom pout and bow-formed upper. Bow-formed upper? If that’s not a romantic description, I don’t know what is…
“That’s not the reason you’re single,” Sophia dryly points out, rearranging the napkin dispenser on the table in front of us. “It’s the fact that you use words like gaggle in conversation. That word is two hundred years old.”
“I like using relics in everyday jargon—you know this!” I’m always affronted when she points this out. She knows I love Britain, knows I love all things vintage.
I’m a romantic, okay? Old buildings, architecture, and English estates warm my heart like butter and make my knees weak. Is it a crime for me to love a generation that defined us as a people? Is it wrong for me to use slang from 1876? Pfft. Whatever.
“Don’t act so insulted. I’m trying to spare you.”
“How about next time I order a donut, you break my kneecaps instead of letting me order one?” I pat my waist and hips. “These don’t need any more carbs.”
Sophia ignores me, taking a bite of her Long John donut—the deliciously, cakey confection. “Yeah but it’s so carbalicious. The only thing that would make this better is butter.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“What can I say? I’m from the South.”
“You’re from Missouri.”
“Which is south of here. Duh.”
“Alright.” I roll my eyes and stand, brushing the crumbs off my pant legs. “As much as I’d love to sit here and shoot the shit all day, I should get back to work before someone notices I’m not in an actual meeting. Between the two of us, we have accomplished zero things today.”
Sophia makes a show of checking the time. “Yikes. Yeah, I have a few reports to print out and run over to human resources, so give me a smooch and get the hell out of here.”
I laugh at her good-natured dismissal, knowing we both have work to do, and plant a kiss on her upturned cheek then give her a quick hug for good measure.
I love Sophia—she’s the sister I never had. We didn’t grow up together but became fast friends after once waiting in line next to each other at the cell phone store near my apartment.
She gives me another wave as I push through the coffee shop door. “I’ll see you later, weirdo. Text me.”
“See ya, sexy pants.”
I give my tail end a shake. “Byeee.”
It’s a short walk to the office, and I weave my way through the pedestrians on the sidewalk to save time. Punch the up button once I reach the elevator banks and wait patiently for the car to reach my floor once I’m standing inside.
My office—yeah, I’m a lady boss with her own office—is located at the far end of the hall (door closed because I shut it before evacuating for carbs and sugar), and I palm the doorknob with wet, sticky fingers I haven’t bothered to wash or lick clean.
It’s sunny, light blasting me from every direction. I take a seat and regroup, cracking my knuckles before powering up the desktop situated in the center of my desk. Unkink my neck. Wiggle my fingers as if I’m about to perform a magic trick.
The monitor comes on and I tilt my head to study the screen in front of me, frowning at the glowing image.
It’s from the creative department, and nothing about it is right, though I’ve given them directions twice already—very specific directions, down to the numbers on the color wheel so the shade is perfect. Down to the size I want the font.