“I thought it was pork?”
“Shh. Don’t tell steak.” She waves goodbye, and we sign off.
I change out of the dress shirt, pulling on a casual green polo, then grab my phone, writing a text to the woman I didn’t think of naked in the shower at all.
Damn. I am impressing myself with my restraint.
I send her a non-flirty note, asking where we’re meeting. She replies quickly.
Truly: I have to pop into a restaurant supply shop that’s near Prospect Park. Meet me in the park after?
Jason: What? I’m not good enough to be seen in the restaurant supply shop?
Truly: Feel free to be seen there, weirdo. :) But I must warn you, it’s a bit like church for me. I’ll be the one genuflecting before the glasses.
Jason: Then we must meet there, weirdo. :)
Well, I do like the way she looks on her knees.
10
Truly
After my booty boot camp, I call in reinforcements. Charlotte tells me she’s at swim class with her kids, but I’m welcome to sit my ass down on the cold metal bleachers and get loopy on chlorinated air—her words. And since the pool they go to is near me, I take her up on the offer.
I find her quickly among the other parents and slide in next to her. “Hey, hot stuff.”
“Hey, gorgeous. So glad you could meet me for your check-in.”
“It’s my six-month detox anniversary. Can you believe it?”
“Has it actually been six months since the incident, aka, what you described as the best sex of your life?”
I narrow my eyes. “Grrr. You’re so not helpful.”
She glances around, probably making sure other parents aren’t listening, then whispers, “Ah, but I thought good sex was one of the five great pleasures in life.”
“What are the other four, again?”
She counts off on her fingers. “Sarcasm, cats riding Roombas, a well-made margarita, and high heels that feel like slippers. You know the kind—dainty and pretty on the outside, and large and roomy on the inside.”
“I feel like this is three truths and a lie because that last one does not exist.”
“Good sex does. But wait, we’re not talking about good sex. We’re talking about the fact that you’re avoiding it. How hard is that?”
I drop my head dramatically. “It’s awful. He’s too charming, too amusing, too easy to be with. He’s like a bag of popcorn. Have you ever tried to eat just one handful of popcorn?”
“That’s unnatural. Who the hell can do that?”
“Not me, that’s for sure. But here’s the deal: I’m going to be spending even more time with him. He asked me to go to a few weddings with him for work, like as his plus-one, and I need his help with my work stuff too.”
Someone splashes loudly in the water. Charlotte snaps her gaze to the pool, then waves at her son, calling out “good job.” Then she turns back to me. “You were saying? You’re going to spend more time with the guy you want badly and have been secretly into forever? Sounds super wise.”
“Exactly. Help me.”
She rustles around in her purse. “I have just the thing for you. Can I show you the email you sent me the morning after? Maybe you need the reminder of how you felt the next day.”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I need.”
* * *
From: MixologistExtraordinaire at gmail
To: LuckySpotGirl at gmail
Re: Confessions of a Bad Girl
I am the worst twin sister in the world.
The absolute worst.
How could I do this?
And by this, I mean engage in earth-shattering, toe-curling, bend-me-over-the-bed-and-take-me-hard sex with my brother’s best friend. By the way, did I mention the sex was incredible?
Oh, wait. I did.
But I’m not surprised, because I’ve always liked his company. He’s funny and clever, and he has this irreverent side that’s fascinating and wildly entertaining.
But we were only supposed to go snowboarding.
WE’VE SNOWBOARDED TOGETHER BEFORE WITHOUT INCIDENT.
It all seemed innocuous, right? A day on the slopes in January.
At the end of the final run, the sun had already set, and we headed into the ski lodge and made plans to meet for dinner.
I didn’t even drink at dinner. Neither did he. We just talked the whole time, and there was candlelight. Stupid candlelight. And he was flirting, and he always flirts, but this time . . . this time we weren’t in New York. We were far enough away I could forget everything that went wrong years ago.
Did I ever tell you about Sarah, my closest friend growing up? She was the shoulder I leaned on when my father died, and we were the best of friends all through college. After graduation, she told me she wanted to go out with my brother and asked for my permission. Shocking, right?
But I talked to Malone about her anyway.
When I asked if he wanted to date Sarah, he said only if it was okay with me. Only if it was all out in the open. I said go for it. No one was sneaking around, so it was fine.
He went out with her for a few months, and at first, it was great. Until Sarah wanted more. She kept pushing him, and when he didn’t want the same things she did, she turned into a different person. She was now Sarah, wound up and tortured edition, pining away for a man.
Malone ended it with her, and then she ended it with me.
One morning she met me for coffee to “break up” with me. She said she couldn’t bear to see me anymore because I reminded her of him. When she got over him, maybe we could be friends again, she’d said. That was well over a decade—nearly thirteen years—ago. And I haven’t seen or heard from her since.
Yes, I was younger, and sure, in some ways this was early-twenties relationship drama. But, Charlotte, as I’m writing this, my throat’s tight and my stomach’s churning. No one tells you how much it hurts to lose a friend.
But you know what hurt more?
What it did to my brother and me.
Nothing was the same between us for months. Everything was awkward and tense, and we barely spoke to each other. When things eventually returned to normal, we made a deal—we’d never date a friend of each other’s again.
I broke my side of the bargain last night.
I slept with his best friend.
And the worst part? I want to be consumed with nothing but regret, only what’s in my head is a whole lot more chaotic and crazy. It’s half regret and half desire.
But here’s the bottom line: it can’t happen again. There are some things I can’t risk losing.
Xoxo
Truly
* * *
But I’m not that twenty-two-year-old now. I’m not the girl who couldn’t break through the awkwardness to repair things with her own brother so many years ago.
I’m a goddamn adult, and my relationship with him is important, one of the most important in my life. That doesn't mean I plan to confess The Incident, but I want to be as honest with him as I can.
When I say goodbye to Charlotte and leave the pool, I fish around for my phone and call my favorite person.
“Hey, knucklehead!” I say when Malone picks up.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of a Sunday-morning phone call?”
As I walk down the street, dropping my sunglasses over my eyes, I answer him. “Want to grab coffee before I go to the restaurant supply store?”
“If you’re buying, and if by coffee you mean coffee plus eggs and potatoes.”
“My, my, someone’s a growing boy.”
“Yes, I’m having a growth spurt at age thirty-five. Are you too?”
“Did you really just remind me of my age?”
“No, I reminded you of my age,” he says. “I can’t help it if you happen to be nearly as old as your older brother.”
“I am, and always will be, younger by an astonishing five whole minutes. Also, you are evil. Good thing I love you. Meet you at Wendy’s Diner in t
wenty?”
“I’ll be there, with a glass of milk to help my bones grow faster.”
I’m about to hang up when I realize I haven’t said everything that needs saying. I won’t be up-front about the past, but I can be open about the present, so I say, “Cool. And I have to meet Jason after that. I’m helping him with a work thing.”
There. That feels a little better, I tell myself. Being mostly honest has to be a good thing, right?
“Are you going into the men’s-advice business or the groomsman-for-hire business? Because as much as I admire your skills, I’m not sure either is the right path for you, on account of you not being a man. Just a friendly tip.”
I smile inside. This is what I missed during the aftermath of Sarah. This is what I don’t want to lose again. And that’s why I’m meeting my brother right now—because I can. “Thanks for the sage advice. Wow. So helpful. Also, I love you. Just wanted to say it again.”
“You’re such a goofball. I love you too.”
I hang up and head into the Manhattan morning feeling like I can handle whatever comes my way. Even the man who gave me the best sex of my life.
11
Jason
I’d like to say I don’t flirt, but it’s too hard to resist.
When I find Truly ogling shelves of shot glasses, I point to the floor. “I believe I was told you’d be on your knees. ‘Genuflecting before the glasses,’ wasn’t it?”
“It’s called a metaphor. You use it to creatively express how you feel about something.”
“Let me creatively express how much I was looking forward to seeing you on your knees—like a die-hard Yankees fan looks forward to spring training.”
“Good one, since I do enjoy the arrival of spring training.”
“Thought you might like that. Want to tell me the story again of how you met Mariano Rivera?”
“Are you saying I’ve told you that story too many times?”
“Oh, no. Never. I hardly remember it. Was it after the game one Sunday afternoon, and Charlotte snapped the photo by the third baseline?”
Truly arches a disdainful brow. “See if I ever invite you to a game again.”
“Please tell it to me once more. I can hear it for the ten thousandth time.”
“I’m literally never sharing someone else’s season tickets with you ever.”
“You will. You totally will.” I shift gears, pointing to the glasses. “Have you ever collected anything? Like shot glasses or license plates or aprons?”
“Nah, I don’t really like things. I suppose, technically, I collect pancake recipes. But I keep them up here.” She taps her skull.
“That is worth collecting.” I pause, picturing what I might amass if I had that itch. “If I were a collector, I’d go for typewriters.”
“Typewriters?”
“Those things you use to write on? They have little keys with the letters of the alphabet on them.”
“Ohhh. I was wondering what those were.” She picks up a wineglass and runs her thumb along the stem. “Do you really write on a typewriter? That’s so quaint.”
“God, no. I’d have to become a registered hipster if I did, and I’m not ready to move to Brooklyn yet. Come to think of it, I don’t own skinny jeans either.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
“All right. Stop distracting me with talk of pancakes and typewriters. Why aren’t you on your knees?”
She taps me lightly on the chest with the rim of the glass. “Because you can’t have everything.”
“Don’t I know it.” I gesture to the overwhelming array of stemware lining the shelves—glasses for wine and martinis, for margaritas and champagne. “What are you shopping for?”
She shrugs happily. “Nothing and everything. By which I mean, I’ll know when I see it. But if I don’t check them out, how will I find that perfect new glass that tempts a customer? Gabriella’s the same. She actually sent me a list of new glasses she’s been coveting.”
She grabs her phone and shows me a text.
Gabriella: You must get Nick and Nora glasses. I both beg you and insist on it. They are sooo cool and so tren-day. Also, some V-shaped martini glasses for me? They make me happy. Pretty please!
“She’s enthusiastic.”
“That’s why she’s a keeper, and that’s why I want to move her up. She might love glasses as much as I do. After all, every drink needs the right glass. I’ve been in love with picking glasses and making drinks since I was a kid crafting the coolest mixes for my lemonade stand.”
“Seriously? You made fancy lemonades for sale?”
“Hell yeah. I hustled my ass off on the streets of the West Village, selling honey lemonade, red-pepper lemonade, cherry lemonade. But I mostly did it for fun. I made all sorts of concoctions growing up.”
“What besides lemonade was in your young mixologist repertoire?”
“Started with Shirley Temple, of course. Malone loved that. I tested all my creations on him, and my parents too. My dad went crazy for my Arnold Palmer. I’d set up at the kitchen counter with all the plastic cups and mismatched mugs. I’d mix sodas with syrups, and juices with other juices, and try to figure out the perfect garnish to add.”
“So you were, for all intents and purposes, always a bartender?” I ask as we wander down the next aisle, surveying sherry glasses and copper mugs.
“A businesswoman too. When I was a teenager, I made enough at my summer lemonade stand to cover my movie and lipstick budget.” She smiles, her glossy red lips shining. “I do like my lipstick.”
Oh, how I want to say, And I like kissing it off, but I’m on a flirting diet. So I focus on the non-naughty things she said. “And now you’re hoping to expand your business.”
“Yes. Let’s dive into it.” She finishes browsing the aisles, places an order with the woman who runs the shop, then we head to Prospect Park, grabbing a bench on the outskirts of the grass.
“The investor I mentioned? I pitched him on that Parisian-themed bar I want to open. He likes it, but his partners aren’t ready for that yet. So he asked me to put together a concept for a new bar, modeled after Gin Joint with signature cocktails, decor, and all that . . . but with a British theme.”
“And clearly I’m the only person you could possibly come to.”
“You are kind of my one British friend.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way. I don’t want you accessible to any other Brits. They’re very dangerous, what with the way they speak in that sexy accent that makes American women swoon.”
She shoots me the side-eye. “You think I swoon when I hear your voice?”
“Swoon, throw your knickers at me, and want to have sex straightaway.” Maybe I was supposed to behave, but hell, it’s so damn hard with her. “It’s quite a burden to bear.”
“I thought we were trying to stay in the friend zone.”
I shoot her a you’re crazy stare. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m talking about the challenge of going around with this accent. Do you have any idea? Everybody wants me. Admit it. You do kind of melt a little when you hear me talk.”
“I admit nothing.”
“I’ll take that as a good thing.” I shift gears. Business now. Seriously. “Okay, so you’re using me for my pub expertise. What’s the plan?”
“What I thought we could do is this: I’ll go with you to the weddings as your fake date, and you can go with me to visit some of the pubs I want to check out. You can be my reality check, if you will. I also want to make sure the ideas I have are authentic, so I want to test them on you. I was hoping we could even start in the next day or so? Perhaps Tuesday?”
“I’m there.”
“Perfect. Now tell me about the weddings you want me to go to.”
I review the details, rattling off the basics of Chip’s ceremony, then the one for Enzo from Spain, who hired me since he’s new to the country and doesn’t know anyone yet, and another where I’m simply an extra groomsman, and I’ve be
en asked to play the part with an Aussie accent, for no other reason than the groom finds Crocodile Dundee entertaining. The groom is a superstar skateboarder in the X Games, and I tell her my friend Josh recommended me.
“Your sports agent friend?”
“Yes. Josh Summers. Reps a couple of the Yankees, some of the Rangers, and on and on. You’d like him; therefore, I will probably never introduce you to him.”
Laughing softly, she gives me a curious stare. “Why would I like him?”
“All the women do.”
“So all women everywhere have the same taste?”
I tap my chin. “Fair point. Your taste is finer. After all, you did enjoy the ride on my—”
Her hand covers my mouth. “Be. Good.” She nudges my elbow. “So . . . when do I meet this hot sports agent friend of yours?”
I narrow my eyes, huffing. “Never. Also, I don’t actually need a date for the skateboarder’s wedding. It’s a solo gig.”
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Positive. And for that comment, you will never meet Josh.”
She rubs her palms together. “And you will never get to see Presley, then. She’s stunning and brilliant and hilarious. So there. I’m keeping her away from you too.”
I roll my eyes. “You do know I’ve met her several times. She comes to jujitsu with us now and then, and yes, she’s quite funny.”
“Then you’re not allowed to speak with her again.”
“You’re cute when you’re jealous.”
“Ha. Same to you. But enough about hot friends. About the two weddings you need me for . . . I presume we’ll need backstories and fake names? A different one for each?”
I make a low whistle of appreciation. “Damn, you’re good. Is there a name you’ve always wanted to have?”
She adopts a high, saccharine tone. “Oh, God. I love the name Truly.” Her voice returns to dry and sarcastic. “It’s not as if I was always made fun of for my name growing up.”
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