Unless there’s drugs involved. Then he has to say something.
I keep myself clean. Drugs are a no go. When we’re in season, I prefer to lay off the alcohol too. That’s a new thing. As I get older, it gets harder to recover from a night of drinking.
We’re getting closer to camp and the rigorous training that comes with it, and that means my days of clubbing and getting drunk are about to come to an end.
I sort of don’t mind.
“I don’t know,” I finally answer Howard, leaning back in my chair and staring out the window at the passing city streets. My heart actually pangs, and I have a sudden realization.
I’m lonely.
“You’re not getting any younger,” Howard says, and I can tell he’s just giving me a hard time. I can hear the teasing tone in his voice, see the faint smile curling his lips. “You need to find some pretty little thing who worships you and eventually gives you a couple of pretty babies. Someone you actually want to spend time with, you know what I mean?”
“I do know what you mean,” I tell him sincerely.
Babies would be nice. A pretty little thing who worships me would be awfully nice too. Though I don’t want her to worship Mitchell Anderson, all-star defensive lineman for the Raiders.
I want her to like me for me. Good ol’ boring Mitch. The guy who wouldn’t mind kicking back on the couch on a Saturday night with his pretty little thing who worships him. Watch a movie on Netflix right before she sat on his face and he made her come with his tongue.
Hey. I’m definitely looking for a woman to love, but when it comes down to it, I’m still a fuckin’ horn dog.
Three
Eleanor
Sunday brunch consists of our usual crowd. Even though we were just together yesterday for Caroline’s bridal shower, we still can’t resist a champagne brunch on a beautiful weekend morning. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the tourists are quiet—they’ll be worse later in the afternoon—and I can hear the ocean waves crash against the beach just down the street. We’re sitting outside in the front patio of one of our favorite restaurants in downtown Carmel, most of us wearing sunglasses on or even a hat.
Meaning me. I’m the one in the hat. It’s large and it’s made out of straw and I probably look ridiculous, but I don’t care. Besides, I ran out of dry shampoo and I keep forgetting to buy some, so it’s a hat day.
It’s also one of those rare bright sunny days, which doesn’t happen too often in Carmel during the summer. Most people imagine the California beaches as sunshiny and hot, palm trees waving with the warm breeze and bronze-skinned women clad in tiny bikinis as they sun themselves on the sand. And while that does exist…it’s not completely true. At least, not where we live. During the summer, it’s cold most days, and the fog rarely lifts. The average temperature is sixty degrees, and at night it’s downright chilly. We get our warm season in the fall. No fog, just sunny skies and temperatures in the seventies. It’s downright blissful.
I am not feeling so blissful at the moment, though. And neither is my friend and partner in crime from last night.
“I am so hungover,” Kelsey moans just before she takes a swig of her mimosa. I’m jealous of that mimosa. I arrived a little later than everyone else, so I’m still waiting for mine. “I need hash browns.”
I make a face. “Yuck, why?” That sounds terrible to my hungover self.
“Grease absorbs the liquor remnants in your system, duh.” Kelsey sends me a duh look as well, though I’m not offended. She’s extra grouchy in the morning, which is normal. Even if she isn’t hungover. We’re used to it.
“You two went out drinking last night?” Caroline asks brightly.
I wince at her overly loud voice, reaching for the mimosa that’s just been set in front of me by our server, thank God. “Maybe,” I answer after I take a sip.
“There’s no maybe about it,” Stella says with a knowing smirk on her face. “We saw you two.”
“Saw us how?” I ask warily, sending a death glare in Kelsey’s direction.
Her face is one of pure innocence as she gazes at me.
“On Kelsey’s Instagram stories,” Stella answers, making me rest my hand against my chest. I’ve told my friends time and again I don’t like it when they document our drunken moments. Talk about not putting your best foot forward. “You two look like you were having fun.”
Okay. I’m trusting Stella’s assessment. She’s brutally honest most of the time, so if I looked like a complete ass, she’d tell me.
But how did I not realize Kelsey was filming me last night, and posting on social media? Of course, this was the same woman who snapped photos of me at the shower without me knowing. Pretty good photos of me too.
Maybe last night’s stories aren’t so bad.
Deciding I need to see what Stella’s talking about, I grab my phone and open Instagram, scrolling through the stories until I find Kelsey’s. The first one is a video of her talking into the camera.
“We’re the last of the single girls,” Kelsey says in this hushed voice, like she doesn’t want anyone to hear her. And you barely can, thanks to the noisy bar we were sitting in. “The sole survivors!”
The video switches to me getting mad at her over the Rate a Date app, which I didn’t need the reminder, thank you very much. Next is a video of a bunch of guys sitting at the bar, singing “Happy Birthday” to their friend. They were loud and sloppy drunk, and Kelsey couldn’t stop laughing at them.
Me? I wasn’t interested.
The last story video is of us waiting on the sidewalk for our Uber, me standing there with my arms wrapped around myself to ward off the chill as I stare off into the distance, my breasts looking ready to pop out of my dress. I’m a curvy girl, it’s hard to tame those babies, but jeez, I look like I’m about to explode with boobage, if you know what I mean.
“I hate everything about your story,” I tell Kelsey once it’s finished.
“Ah, come on, it was no big deal.” Kelsey shrugs.
“You make us sound desperate.” She keeps looking at me like she doesn’t understand what I’m saying. “Why did you film those guys at the bar?”
“They were having fun. I thought they were cute.”
“You looked like a stalker.”
“I was sort of stalking them.” She drains her mimosa.
“And mentioning that we were the last single girls.” I point at her. “That’s where you really made us sound desperate.”
I hate that word. Desperate. Pathetic isn’t good either. I don’t want to look like either of those things, you know? Who does?
“I was only speaking the truth! We should be proud of our single heritage,” Kelsey protests.
“I don’t even think that’s a thing.” I catch our friend Sarah watching us bicker and decide to draw her into it. “Is that a thing? Single heritage?”
Sarah frowns. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I’m about to launch into a full-blown argument with Kelsey when I get an unfamiliar notification sound—it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard come from my phone before.