Jessi’s outfit suggestion was spot on. The women at the bachelorette party are all dressed in similar outfits or dresses. The bride-to-be, dressed in the traditional white, is currently wearing a penis crown and sipping a cocktail I had our in-house mixologist create for her special occasion. In a hue of the brightest pink, it’s basically a sure-fire hangover, but it’s pretty and packs a punch. Both of which were requirements from the hostess and maid of honor.
As the ladies begin the first set of games, I work with the other staff members to clean up the food from dinner and set out dessert. The bride’s sister and cousin were in charge of games, which was a relief. Other than making a wedding gown out of toilet paper, I was at a loss for games.
Currently, the ladies are sitting in a circle playing a heated game of “How Well Do You Know the Bachelorette?” and I’m hoping the name calling is all in good fun and we aren’t about to have a smackdown. Laughter and hoots and hollers fill the room so I know the bloodshed portion has passed and offer take one of the serving trays to the kitchen.
I’m not sure how long I spend in the kitchen, but by the time I return to the dining room with a platter of mini cheesecakes and eclairs, the lights have dimmed, and the music has changed. Ed Sheeran no longer serenades the group, and instead the deep beats of “Candy Shop” by 50 Cent fill the room. What in the . . .
This is not happening.
I know this was not on the agenda handed to me yesterday. I’d remember if there was an item labeled “Dudes in G-strings.”
Please don’t let it be him. Please. Please. I swear I’ll be a better person. I won’t take grapes from the produce department ever again. Just please, please don’t let it be him.
When the two men currently flanking the bride turn to face me, my hands unclench and I release a long breath. Thank you, Lord. I swear, never again. I will never eat another grape without paying. It isn’t Lucas. It is Tom and Jonah but not Lucas.
Small favors, I suppose. Then why am I disappointed?
Jonah raises his eyes from the bride, and our gazes collide. A smirk takes over his face, and I roll my eyes. Male strippers have never been my thing. Well, no male stripper before Lucas.
Leaving the guests to their own devices, I retreat to the kitchen and help the other staff members with dishes and clean-up. I don’t need to know what’s happening in the other room. In fact, I’d prefer not to know anything. Makes it easier if I’m ever asked about what happened here tonight.
I’m bent over, pulling cleaner from under the sink, when a throat clears behind me.
“Now it all makes sense. I’d be wallowing, if I didn’t have that in my life.”
Jumping to attention, I turn toward Jonah with a towel in one hand and my other armed with a squirt bottle of bleach-based cleanser. Eyes wide, I stand still as a mannequin, waiting for him to say something else.
When seconds tick by and he hasn’t said anything, I ask, “Excuse me?”
“I said, I get it now. Why he’s been acting like such a little bitch the last few months. If I had that ass in my hands and it walked away, I’d be bummed too.”
“I. What? Whose ass?” I stammer. Words and not sentences because really, how do you respond to that statement? Lucas has been wallowing? I like that a little too much as hope rises within me.
“Girl, relax. The maid of honor said I could get a beer. That cool?” he asks, motioning toward the refrigerator. Nodding, I set down the towel and cleaner before quickly washing my hands. Watching Jonah, I take a moment to appreciate how he moves around the kitchen. He’s larger than Lucas, probably about four inches taller, and it’s obvious he spends a lot of time in the weight room. If I was guessing, I’d say he’s probably about five or six years older than I am, putting him around thirty. His blond hair is cut short on the sides, with the top a little longer. I imagine the ladies love to tug on it when he’s in front of them. The way his crystal blue eyes sparkle when he smiles, I’m sure the offers he gets are endless. There’s no doubt about it, he’s hot. But not my type.
“That hits the spot. I worked up quite a thirst out there.”
“I can imagine,” I murmur, unsure of how to respond to that. What do you say to someone who takes his clothes off for strangers? Is there some sort of handbook for a conversation like this? If so, I’m going to need to one-click that bitch.
“I have to say, seeing you here is a bit of a surprise.”
“Yeah? Well, I could say the same about you.” Needing something to do, I take a towel and wipe down the counter. It doesn’t need it, but I need something to do. When my co-workers return from taking our supplies out to their cars, the look they give me instantly sends a chill up my spine. I offer a quick explanation of the “entertainment” needing a beverage and send them home early, promising I can handle the rest of the evening alone.
“So you’re in charge? That’s cool. Jessi said you’ve been hoping to get more responsibility.”
Wait, what? He talks to Jessi?
“You talk to Jessi?”
“Yeah,” he says while tossing his empty bottle in the recycling before grabbing another. I’m surprised he’s making himself at home here, but whatever, it’s not my house to care. “After we met that weekend, we ran in to each other at school. We’ve hung out a few times. She’s a cool chick. It’s nice to have someone to bitch about school with, and she’s not trying to get in my pants.”
I’m not sure why, but that comment has me laughing. Usually, it’s women complaining about men wanting in their pants, but I suppose that’s his reality. Each of their realities. These women throw themselves at them constantly, and while I assume they take most offers, I don’t know that for certain.
“Huh, she never said anything.” My bestie and I are going to have a long talk about her secret friendships. I can’t believe she wouldn’t tell me. Then again, I’ve been pretty self-absorbed these last few months. God, I’m a horrible friend.
“So are you guys . . .”
“Just friends. I have a girlfriend.”
“You do?” I shout.
Laughing, he takes a drink before answering. “Why is that so crazy? Yeah, we’ve been together about four years. Just waiting to pass the bar before we get married. I’ve tried putting a ring on it for a year, but she’s stubborn as fuck. You’d probably love her.”
“You think I’m stubborn or something?” I tease.
“I have a feeling. Anyway, Jessi has been great and Carmen, that’s my girlfriend, she thinks she’s slightly nuts but adores her and her ability to get me to lighten up when I’m studying. She says she’s the law school ying to my yang.”
Baffled. I’m baffled.
“You look confused. Ya okay, Whitney?”
“Fine. Sorry. Your girlfriend doesn’t have a problem with your job?”
“She hated it at first. Boy, did she,” he says, exasperated. “But, it was my job before I met her, and she knows I’m only dancing because the money is too good. You’d be surprised to find out how many of the guys are students. The money is good, the hours are decent with my school schedule, and Carmen’s been to the bar. She knows what it’s really like.”
“Wow. She’s a better person than I am. I don’t think I could handle it.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. It’s a job. It doesn’t define me, and she knows that. She knows the man I am and how much I value our relationship. I’d never do anything to hurt her, and that’s why she tolerates it. Plus, there’s an end date for me.”
I take what he says to heart. I still don’t know if I could handle it. Finding out Trenton was cheating was hard, and I will admit the idea of trusting another man with my heart is scary. To trust someone who literally gets naked for other women? Women who are fantasizing about taking him home and having their wicked way with him. That’s a line I’m not sure I could cross.
Jonah and I talk a little more while I put away the cleaning supplies I had out and he finishes his beer. Looking at the clock, I realize it’s bee
n quite a while since I’ve checked on the party.
“Yeah, I’ve given Tom enough time to flirt and get a few numbers. I swear that guy is a walking cliché.”
Jonah and I return to the den where the party is in full swing. Tom is front and center with a few of the ladies dancing. Another is lying on the couch, her feet crossed, and her phone focused on the group dancing while the bride is standing to the side with a plate of dessert and a huge smile on her face. I know that look, she’s getting ammunition for future necessity, in the form of a video.
Once he’s able to give Tom a two-minute warning they’re leaving, Jonah returns to my side where I’m gathering garbage. “Luke has been pretty bummed since you guys got back from your trip. I think you should call him.”
Stopping mid-wipe, I turn my attention to Jonah and note his sincerity and say, “I saw him a few weeks ago.”
“I know. Call him, Whitney. He’s a good guy, and I know he was pretty stoked at reconnecting with you.”
Rapping his knuckles on the table, Jonah offers me only a nod before turning and walking toward the bride. I watch as he takes her hand in his and places a chaste kiss to her knuckle. A blush creeps up her neck to her cheeks. With a simple head tilt, Jonah motions for Tom to follow him, and they leave.
I stay at the party another hour but as the ladies begin fading and the music lowers, I confirm with the maid of honor my services are no longer needed before wishing the bride well and confirm I’ll see her at the wedding in a few weeks.
After settling behind the wheel, I wait a few minutes for my car to warm up and tap the music icon on my phone. The opening chords of one of my favorite songs fills the small space of my car, and before I have to start belting at the top of my lungs, I pull up Lucas’s name.
Me: Hey. I wanted to see if you would like to meet for a coffee or something next week?
Delete. That’s the worst first attempt at communication. Instead, I toss my phone in my purse and let myself give in to the music and sing at the top of my lungs a little Night Ranger as I pull away from the curb. I’ll have to think hard about what I should say because “Hey” isn’t it.
Growing up on the West Coast, specifically a coastal town, you’d think I’d worship the sun. I do, don’t get me wrong, it’s just that we’re usually at the mercy of the morning burn off. Cooler mornings lead to warm afternoons and I love it. Drowning in vitamin D was the highlight of my teenage years. I love the way my skin tingles under the rays of the blaring sun and the way sweat bubbles to the surface from the heat. Always covered from head to toe in sunscreen, and I mean that literally, sunscreen on the feet is vital. It only takes one bad sunburn when you’re thirteen to force yourself to wear socks and sneakers all summer and add this step to your morning regimen. Regardless of the mundane task of coating my skin with sunscreen, I love a bright sunny day.
This morning, I wish I had a super power to throw a pillow at the bright orb. Being woken up by the bright ball of fire isn’t exactly my favorite. I prefer, well, just about anything else. But last night I crawled into bed and didn’t close my blinds. The end result is that bastard shining in my eyes. With only one eye slightly open, I feel around aimlessly on my side table for my phone. Through my blurry eyes, I see it’s barely half passed seven.
On Sunday.
This is ridiculous and abusive. Of course, I’m my own abuser for failing to close the blinds, but that’s neither here nor there. Fine, I’m a little dramatic in the morning. Shoot me. I’m hung the fuck over.
After I got home from work last night, I contemplated a long warm bath and a session with my battery-operated boyfriend, Sven, but instead I poured myself a tequila. Then another. By the third, my creative juices were flowing, and I came up with perfect text to send Lucas. Lighthearted and friendly, it didn’t scream desperation and that was a huge bonus.
I didn’t send it.
I wimped out.
I’m a complete loser. For two months I’ve done nothing but think of him. My dreams have varied between memories of the crush I had in high school and the one I developed on our trip. It isn’t only the physical part, because, let’s be real, that’s a big part of it. It’s more. It’s the way he made me feel.
When I met Trenton, I was so determined to find the perfect guy for the perfect life, I didn’t stop to think about what that meant. Somewhere along the way I gave up the things I wanted and conformed to who I thought I was supposed to be. Happy and smiling, I rarely disagreed. I was a real-life version of a robot, and I was the furthest from happy I could be. Sure, I convinced myself it was the life I wanted, but I never stopped to think of how I felt about it. The picture of perfection was all I was interested in.
The greatest blessing I’ve received in my adult life was never getting Lasik. Forgetting my contacts that fateful day flipped my world on its axis, but it also pushed me to confront who I am. Who I had become.
I miss the old me. The silly and awkward me who loves eighties hair bands and can lip-sync a rock ballad like nobody else. I’m creative and organized, two important factors when it comes to event planning. But most importantly, I’m independent. I’ve rediscovered each of these parts of myself in the last few months.
Feeling renewed and motivated, I throw the covers off and quickly rise and turn to set my feet on the ground when a wave of nausea overcomes me. Morning after tequila is not my friend. With a deep breath, I rise and grab my hoodie before slowly making my way to the kitchen for coffee and a gallon of water.
The apartment is quiet as it is most mornings, but this is eerily quiet like Jessi never came home last night. A twinge of jealousy hits me. Or, maybe that’s the tequila. I can’t tell at this point.
As I cringe at the sound of the grinder, I welcome the aroma of soon-to-be coffee. Whoever decided to boil water and add coffee beans to it was a genius. And likely a woman. Thinking of Jessi not coming home, I’m battling myself. I’m happy for her because I love my best friend and want her to find happiness. Yet, I’m not surprised when jealousy pricks at my core. I’m in no way ready to date, and I’m not even sure I would know how to at this point, but it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like someone to laugh with, to watch a movie, and to hold my hand during a walk on the beach.
I’ve maybe given this some thought.
With little patience this morning, I pull the coffee carafe from where the goodness drips and set my cup in its place. Strong coffee is a must and this is a surefire way for me to get it. Plus, maybe it’ll help a little before I get in the shower. When the cup is about half full, I replace it with the appropriate receiver and drop a bit of creamer in the cup as there’s a knock at the door.
It’s a little early for solicitors. It’s probably Jessi locked out. Unlocking the door, I pull it open and to my surprise, it isn’t Jessi on the other side.
“Lucas.”
“Hey. Am I too early? You said between eight and eight thirty, right?”
“Huh?”
“Are you feeling okay? You’re looking a little green around the gills.”
Eyes wide, flashes of the night before fill my foggy brain, and I take a step back from the door and look down. Shit. I’m not dressed. I’m still in only my panties and hoodie.
“Hold this,” I say, thrusting my coffee toward Lucas as I walk double time down the hall to my room. Grabbing a pair of leggings from a pile of clothes on my bed, I quickly pull them on before turning to the large mirror and gasping. My hair is wild mess, yesterday’s makeup is smudged under my eyes, and there’s . . . yep, a trail of dried drool on my chin.
Kill me.
Please.
Rushing to the bathroom, I grab one of my makeup remover wipes from the container and wipe the day-old mascara from under my eyes and the drool stain from my chin before quickly brushing my teeth. My hair is a lost cause at this point so I grab a claw clip and try to at least tame it in a random twist on top of my head.
For a minute I contemplate taking off the hoodie and letting my boobs distract L
ucas from the hot mess before him.
I said contemplate not do.
Walking back in the living room, I don’t see Lucas. Great, he left.
Wait. What’s that delicious smell? Bacon?
Following the smell of bacon like a dog, I find Lucas in the kitchen at the stove. A cup of coffee in one hand, the other holds a fork as he flips a piece of bacon in a pan. Sweet peppers, that’s a sight. Lucas DeCosta cooking in my kitchen. If only he were shirtless, this would be a perfect spank bank memory.
“Feeling better?” he asks with a playful grin. Asshole.
Spotting my cup on the table, I pick it up and lift it to my lips as I attempt a witty comeback. My sluggish state only causes him to chuckle at my expense.
“Don’t mock me. I had tequila last night.”
“I figured by the smell that greeted me. At least it was top shelf,” he says, motioning with the fork to the empty bottle on the counter.
“I didn’t drink the entire thing. Just a few shots. It was a long day. Oh, I saw Jonah and Tom. That was random.”
“Were you at the party they did last night?”
“Yeah, I was working the event. Speaking of random,” I begin before taking another sip of my coffee. “What are you doing here? And, how did you know where I live?”
“You text me last night. Well, it was technically this morning.”
“I did not.” Did I?
“Check your phone. You sure did.”
I quickly grab my phone from my room and return to the kitchen as Lucas is adding cheese to a pan of eggs. I swear if this guy is trying to make me fall in love with him, he’s doing a fine job. Bacon and cheesy eggs. I swear if he put cream cheese on my toast instead of butter, I’m all his.
The moment my eyes land on the series of text messages, I’m not sure food is a good idea. Dread and humiliation are now my name. Like Madonna or Beyoncé only I have two because I’m a dumbass.
I Don't: A Romantic Comedy Page 10
