He winces. “Yeah, but only because Justin gave her a baby. Now she wants one from me, too, so she can have a nice set of two to bounce on her knees.” His face scrunches like an aluminum can under pressure. “She forgets I need to find a woman first.”
Sometimes it slips my mind that Nate’s mom is normal. “At least yours doesn’t want you to fix her marriage. Mine does.”
He pulls back in surprise. “Isn’t the divorce already final?”
“She’s trying to delay it.” Like that’s going to change what she’s done.
“And you’re supposed to fix it? What does she think you can fix? And why you? You’re the King of Short Flings and One-Night Stands.”
“Dunno.”
Now that you’re finished with your Master’s, you can spend some time convincing your father, one of her texts said last month. She’s obviously forgotten that my degree is in Gender Studies, not Matrimonial Repair.
Nate gives me a look full of sympathy, and I glance away. I don’t need his pity. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to be in the mess my family’s in. The worst drama he’s ever been through was his grand-uncle Barron throwing a temper tantrum once or twice because he didn’t get his way. But unlike my mom, Barron isn’t morally bankrupt.
A tiny bit of resentment squirms like a worm pulled from deep, dark soil. I hate myself for feeling jealous of Nate for having a normal family. I should just be happy for him.
And I am happy for him. I just wish I had some normalcy, too.
Mentally I stomp the worm into a petty little death, then look out the window, hoping something out there will make me laugh or forget. There are twelve million people in Los Angeles. Surely someone will do something to put a smile on my face.
But no. People rush like slithery eels on the streets, and cars move with impotent fury, as though there’s some massive conspiracy to keep them going well below the speed limit.
It’s too bad my sense of humor isn’t warped enough to find any of that funny. Maybe it’s time I develop one.
Harcourt Roderick Blackwood. Laugher at All Things.
But until then, I need to settle for more standard fare—drinking, clubbing, finding a hot girl to spend the night with… The usual.
The Prius makes the final right turn. I start to say something to Nate, then something catches my eye. I stop, then stare at a woman in the long-ass line to get inside Z.
I can’t pinpoint exactly what about her that captured my attention. The lights show her face, and it isn’t stunning. She’s not ugly or anything. But every feature on her face is just a little too large. The aggregate should look slightly off…maybe even unattractive. But not in combination, not on that heart-shaped face. It’s not classically beautiful, but it’s arresting.
My gaze drops to her body. Long and slim, it’s the exactly opposite of what I lik
e. I prefer melons and a bountiful ass I can grab. But she does have T and A…just smaller. Like going from a watermelon to a peach.
But somehow the size doesn’t matter. Heat curls inside me anyway as I watch her. How weird. Is my taste changing for some reason? Even steak can get old if you eat it all the time. Maybe it’s that tube dress… It’s bright red—the same shade of red as a Skittles wrapper. Her heels are hot too—high and strappy and sparkly silver.
Then it finally hits me—why she’s so mesmerizing.
Everyone around her is feigning a bored “I’m too hot to wait” expression, like that will move the line faster. But she’s moving to some kind of music only she can hear.
Her hips swivel, her waist sinuous. Her movements aren’t big or wild—she’s on a sidewalk, after all—and they aren’t the slickest, but there’s so much joyful exuberance in her. It’s bubbling like hot, sugary syrup, and I want to lap—it—up.
When she gives a small smile, I swear a rainbow arcs over her head.
“You getting out?”
Nate’s question is like an annoying gnat. “What?”
“We’re here.”
I blink and look around. Oh yeah. I didn’t even realize the car had come to a stop. The driver’s staring at me like I’m an intellectually challenged sloth. With a broken leg.
I climb out and glance back at the girl. That line is long. She’s going to have to wait an eternity in those heels. And a woman bubbling with that much joie de vivre shouldn’t have to.
I start toward her, but Nate stops me. “Where are you going?”