There’s a long pause. “So he’s married. He’s got a wife holed up somewhere.”
I lift my head and look at her. “Worse.”
“What’s worse than married?”
I muse, “How to describe it?” I think for a moment, then drop my head back against the pillows. “He’s…emotionally unavailable.”
“Ha!” She cackles. “Dude! It comes with the testicles!”
That obviously didn’t impress her. I have to give another example. “He’s also very, very, very…mysterious. Enigmatic. Unfathomable.”
She scoffs. “Puh. What, you want to know all the gnarly details about his private life? How often he jerks off? Plucks his nose hairs? Shaves his balls?”
My sigh is heavy. “Yeah, this girlie sharing thing is awesome. I can see why you like it so much.”
“Stop being sarcastic. A little mystery in a relationship is a good thing, not a problem.”
“This is more than a little mystery, Ellie. This is like…does-Bigfoot-exist mystery. Who-really-shot-JFK mystery. What’s-the-deal-with-the-Bermuda-Triangle mystery. This is big.”
“Or maybe you’re just making it big.”
“I’m not making it anything. It is what it is.”
“Hmm.”
She clearly doesn’t believe me.
After a while of staring at me in faint disapproval, she says, “Can I point something out here without you getting offended?”
I groan. “You know when you say something like that, the person you say it to will get offended, right? Asking that question first doesn’t let you off the hook for being offensive.”
Ignoring that, she continues. “You need a man. Don’t look at me like that, it’s true. You’ve had one serious long-term relationship in your life—”
“Which ended very badly, let’s not forget.”
“—and since then, nada. It’s not healthy, Tru. Your vagina is probably as shriveled up as a sun-dried tomato. You’re too young for this kind of celibacy. Wait until after you’ve been married a few years to give up on sex, like everyone else.”
Staring at the ceiling, I say without heat, “I never thought I’d be defending my sex life to my feminist roommate. Aren’t women supposed to support each other’s choices?”
Ellie shrugs. “Hey, I’m not judging you. I’ve had so many sexual partners, I stopped counting when the number equaled my age. I’m simply pointing out facts.”
“Do these charming facts of yours have a purpose?”
“Yes.”
I turn my head and look at her. “Which is?”
She smiles, looking smug. “A month of shacking up with Ireland’s hottest export since Colin Farrell would be like winning the lottery, girlfriend. It’d be a friggin’ dream come true. And the perfect way to ease yourself back into relationship waters without a long-term commitment. I mean, you’ve probably forgotten how great sex without a condom is.”
“My head is spinning. How did we go from the lottery to condoms?”
She turns practical. “Well, you’d both have to get STD tests, of course.”
“I don’t have an STD!”
“And we want to make sure he doesn’t, either. The best way to do that is to make it a condition of moving in with him.”
When I only stare at her in disbelief without responding, she sighs.
“Dude. Seriously. Look at the man. He’s got women throwing their vaginas at him from across the street.”
I say sourly, “That’s a lovely visual. Thank you very much.”
“What I’m saying is that he’s the guy who gets mad pussy. He’s rich, suave, beautiful…that all equals mad pussy. He’s got so much pussy, it’s falling out of his pockets.”
“Jesus, Ellie, when did you start talking like Snoop Dog?”
“Sorry. I’ve been listening to a lot of booty rap lately. Tyler’s really into it. He likes to play it while he’s doing me from behind.”
I make a face. “Can you please leave and go get your pizza now? This sharing stuff is killing me.”
She sighs dramatically, stands, and looks down at me with her hands propped on her hips.
“Give me the bottom line. What’s your main argument against having a month-long affair with that excellent specimen of manhood?”
“Gee, where to start?” I muse. Then, dropping the sarcasm: “I don’t know anything about him. I don’t know his age, where he lives, what he does for a living, and if he owns any clothing other than black Armani suits. I don’t know what kind of food he likes. What kind of music he listens to. What his politics are. Frankly, I don’t even know if the man is actually from planet Earth.”
She deadpans, “Didn’t you hear? Men are from Mars.”
“Oh my god.” I put the laptop over my face so I don’t have to look at her anymore.
“He isn’t the kind of guy you marry, Tru, so don’t worry about any of that stuff!”
I peek over the edge of the laptop and stare up at her.
She smiles at me. “Your hottie Irishman is the guy you have the best sex of your life with, then move on. Guys like him aren’t built for the long haul.”
“What do you mean, built for the long haul?”
“Example: can you picture bringing him home for Christmas?”
I think about that for a moment. Liam, elegant mystery badass, reader of dead French novelists, on the farm, in his couture Armani suit.
My mother would serve a goose she’d slaughtered that morning. My father would suggest a tour of his taxidermy collection of skunks and possums that he shot himself and keeps in the shed. My brothers would get drunk and try to wrestle him. My sisters would flirt. The bull would probably break out of the corral again, and my nana would be eager to tell the story of The Day Truvy’s Pig Ate the Wash.
I slide the laptop down to my chest and say slowly, “That would be a big, fat no.”
“What about doing housework? Mowing the lawn? Changing diapers?”
“No, no, and definitely no.”
“Which is why his plan is so perfect!” She grins like she’s the president of the debate club and just took home the winning trophy.
I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and sigh. “He must’ve hypnotized you. You never like anyone.”
She shrugs. “People in general suck. But he’s a bonafide, once-in-a-lifetime, fiercely smokin’ hot piece of ass that you need to bang six ways to Sunday until your coochie is ready to fall out. And then come home and tell me every single thing.”
I throw my hands in the air. “This isn’t Real Housewives! This is my life!”
“No, it’s a month of your life. But if you’re not interested, tell him I’m up for it.”
“Ellie!”
She rolls her eyes at my outraged expression. “Fine. I’m up for a three-way, too.”
“Oh, really?” I say drily. “And what would Ty think of that plan?”
She snorts. “If I had a chance to spend even ten minutes in the sack with Liam, Ty would be dead to me, girl.”
She turns and heads to my bedroom door, stopping just before she passes through it to give me a stern look. “Eat something.”