“You look like a fairy,” Harlow declares.
“A badass fairy,” Layla corrects, tapping Harlow’s nose.
“But of course,” Harlow seconds, flicking a few strands of hair in her long, curly cherry-red wig. “And now I’ll learn if redheads really do have more fun.”
Camden clears her throat while twirling a strand of her natural hair, all copper and shiny “Oh they do, honey. They definitely do,” she says.
I roll my eyes. “Right, Cam. Right.”
“Or maybe brunettes do, Jules,” Cam says with a hint of I know what you did last night.
Since, well, she does.
We worked out together earlier, on side-by-side ellipticals at the gym, and I told her pretty much everything. I’m not sure if I’ll say anything to Harlow and Layla, but only because I don’t want to overshare. I don’t want to blab either. If I said something, would it come back to hurt Finn? Or me?
No idea. But for now, I just want to have fun with the girls, trying on wigs before we head out.
The distraction helps too. I need it, badly. I’ve been thinking about Finn pretty much nonstop since I left his home eleven hours ago and wishing I could see him again. I knew the boundaries when I went over to his place, but my brain is wired to overthink. A few more days and I probably won’t think about him again. Until then, I’ll keep extra busy.
I wedge past Layla to look for just the right style for tonight.
“Where’s Billie Eilish?” Camden demands as she hunts through my wigs too.
“Top shelf. Right side,” I answer as I grab Lady Gaga from her Styrofoam head.
“Wait. The wigs have names?” Layla cuts in, clearly delighted. “Who’s mine?”
“Katy Perry,” I say, as I grab my electric blue wig, then tug it on over the wig cap I’m wearing.
“And who does Harlow have on?”
“Pink. Cam named that one.” As I adjust Lady Gaga, my phone buzzes with a text.
Might be my dad confirming our mutual fund discussion time tomorrow. Gee, I just can’t wait. But I also have to deal with it, so once my wig is on, I pull my phone from my pocket.
It’s Hank, the doorman, letting me know there’s a delivery for me and he’ll bring it up since he needs to take something to my neighbor too. Huh. I’m not expecting anything. It might be chocolate from my mom, or maybe even a wine she’s had overnighted from the festival she’s at. She’s been known to do things like that.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, and when I open the door, Hank hands me a pink bag with black stripes.
“Here you go, Miss Marley.”
It’s from You Look Pretty Today, and I know it’s definitely not from my mother.
I turn around, bag in hand. There’s no hiding this gift. My skin prickles both with excitement and worry.
What will they say? More importantly, what will I say? Words bubble up my throat, tempting my tongue. The man I spent the night with is a pleasure Dom. How many orgasms do you think you could handle till you begged a guy to stop? I’m desperate to find out, to test my limits, to explore the edge with him.
All my friends’ eyes are on me as I clutch the pink and black bag in both hands. My fingers itch to open this unexpected gift. I feel both stuck and excited.
“Who’s it from?” Harlow asks, her eyes wide with curiosity.
“Is it your birthday and you didn’t tell us? You’re in trouble,” Layla teases.
I swing my gaze from Harlow to Layla to Camden, debating my words. Finn’s nothing happened echoes in my mind. In public, I need to stick to that.
“Or,” Camden puts in, “did you just send yourself something?”
I could kiss her. She gives me a small, supportive nod, permission to spin a white lie into a way out of this awkwardness. But do I want that?
Yes, I want to protect Finn. But I think back to those moments in the town car before I got to his place, to texting my friends, and to how wonderful it felt to share my excitement.
Even if he’s sent me a gift, Finn’s out of my life. But I want these women in my life. Fine, they don’t know all of me. They don’t know about my OCD, my manipulative ex, or the way my family pointed fingers after the night Willa drowned.
But this bag in my hands simply contains a pretty gift, not the secrets of my soul. And there’s more than one way to tell a story.
“While I’m a big fan of self-gifting,” I begin, laughing nervously, “it’s not from me this time.”
Harlow grins my way mischievously. “So, Jules, I guess last night was gooood.” She stretches the last word into ten syllables, inviting me to tell them more.
My chest swells with a strange sort of hope. The hope for friendship that lasts.
“Really, really good,” Layla adds.
Their voices are kind. They’re interested, hopeful that I’ll say more.
I’m the bold one, I’m the bold one. I’m the bold one.
I square my shoulders, flick back a strand of blue hair, then own my right to tell the story of my first time.
“Well, girls, let’s see what the man from last night sent me,” I begin with a sly grin. I set the bag on the counter and open it, unfolding the soft, pale pink tissue paper. Then I stifle a gasp. I knew it was lingerie because I know the store, but wow. These are gorgeous. I reach inside and gently pull out a pair of bright, beautiful pink undies. They’re low-waisted, with a tiny bow and soft, delicate lace. They’re almost identical to the pair Finn ripped off me this morning and I blush fiercely at the memory.
“Girlfriend. Details. They are gorgeous!” Layla coos.
“And I want to know why he sent them,” Harlow says, tapping her toe playfully.
Before I say more, I read the note attached. If I saw you in these, I’d probably rip them off too.
The blush? I feel it everywhere, including deep in my body. That dirty, flirty man. He’s a clever man too. He didn’t sign the note, so I do something really daring. I read it out loud to my friends.
When I finish, Layla howls with delight. Harlow thrusts her arms in the air. Camden fans herself. I flop down on the bed, giddy. I feel a little like champagne, all bubbly. “More, I want more,” Harlow says.
Sitting up, I unspool some of last night. “He’s very, very giving.”
Harlow wiggles a brow. “I do love a giving man.”
“Like borderline obsessed,” I say. “He did things to me I’d only read about.”
“Like?” Layla asks.
I bite my lip, getting lost in the memory. “He kept me up late with orgasms. And he made sure I would never forget it.”
My apartment is quiet for a moment until Harlow sighs with envy. “That’s hot,” she says finally.
And it is hot. It was an intense night of pleasure, and, surprisingly, trust.
Trust that we would keep each other’s secrets.
Still riding that wave, I look around at my friends and breathe in their acceptance and understanding. In this moment, I’m not just the bold one, the one who plans the nights out, the one who has the killer poker face.
I’m one of them. Like I’ve wanted to be.
“He made me beg for orgasms. And he spent his sweet time drawing them out of me,” I say, getting into the details a little more. “What did you call him earlier, Cam?”