Page 24 of Sing Your Secrets
seven
Reese
“What the hell are you wearing?” Addie asks from the seat across from me. She’s currently buried by two oversized Savannah cats that are purring so loud it sounds like someone’s muffler is on the fritz. I snuggle deeper into Miles’s button-up shirt as I peel my eyes away from my phone to glare at her.
“What? Buffalo plaid is in,” I bellyache.
Quinn, to my left, knocks her bare knee against mine and gives me a subtle knowing look.
Mani, on my other side, who is far more outspoken says, “Hell no it’s not. Especially not in April. Even Nono has better fashion sense than that.”
Noa cringes at her nickname. I know she hates we call her Nono but it’s far too late. After almost a decade of friendship, there’s no going back.
“Hey!” Noa shouts from the kitchen behind us as she empties a bag of microwave popcorn into a large glass bowl. “Unnecessary.”
It’s bizarre having girls’ night at Joel’s place. Sorry. Addie and Joel’s place. I’ll never get used to that. It was literally less than a year ago that the youngest of our friend group lost her virginity, at twenty-five. Sure, she was a bit of a late bloomer, but she waited for the right one. Fast forward about six months and here she is, living in their shared penthouse, raising cat children, and from what I understand making up for lost time by basically living in the sheets with her new fiancé. Pretty soon we’re going to start forwarding her mail to 123 Underneath Joel, Denver, Colorado.
“But seriously,” Noa continues as she joins us in the minimally furnished, yet still luxurious looking living room, “what are you drinking?” She glances at the brown glass bottle tucked next to my thigh.
“Kombucha. It’s growing on me.”
“What the fuck?” Noa’s usually the soft-spoken sweetheart of our group. Her present language is a pretty clear indication my best friends think I’m having a psychotic break.
“Does this shirt belong to a new guy?” Quinn nudges me.
“There is no new guy.” The truth is, I flirted with Miles shamelessly. This stupid flannel shirt—that I haven’t washed since he gave it to me two weeks ago—is a souvenir from the first time I’ve been shot down by a guy since…well, Petey, I guess. But I don’t know if shot down and had my heart fucking ripped to shreds is the same thing? “It’s just a shirt,” I mutter. “It’s cozy.”
“Mhmm,” Quinn says. “Just a shirt.”
I take a long swig of my drink, then point my finger right at her forehead. “No. No, thank you. I don’t need commentary from the Happily Ever After Peanut Gallery, thanks much.”
“Happily Ever After Peanut Gallery?” Addie asks.
I rub my hands together, warming up my verbal assault. I point to Addie. “Marrying the first dude you slept with.” Pointing to Noa, I add, “Engaged to a goddamn A-list movie star. Aaand, my personal favorite,” I shift my finger back to Quinn and poke her cheek, “married her brother’s NFL football idol and accidentally fell in love…hard.”
“Fake married,” Quinn objects.
Turning the corners of my lips down, I nod in contemplation. “And how’s the fake sex?” She rolls her eyes but doesn’t defend herself. “That’s what I thought. You’re all on a different orbit than I am at the moment which is why the only opinion I care about is the other stag member of the group.”
I give Amani my best puppy dog eyes.
“Opinion on what?” she asks as she coils her crimson hair into a topknot on her head.
“Is my shirt weird?” I tug on the collar. I realize I’m biased, but maybe this shirt looks better on Miles. Maybe I’m only this obsessed and can’t stop thinking about him because he’s most certainly not thinking about me. Is this what I deserve? Are all my years of hump-and-dump casual sex finally catching up to me in some kind of karmic retribution?
Keeping a straight face, she nods without hesitation. “Super weird. And it kinda smells. And,” she points to the glass bottle wedged into the couch, propped up by my thigh, “the last time you drank anything other than Coke Zero, Red Bull, coffee, or alcohol, I’m pretty certain was six years ago—junior year. Remember when you threw up your body weight in vodka after the—”
“Homecoming mixer,” Noa mumbles as she closes her eyes and shakes her head solemnly. “Oh, man, that was a bad night.”
“I don’t remember that,” I add.
“Um, exactly.You used a bottle of Belvedere for a wet T-shirt contest—in which I might add, you were the only contestant. Your skin had some sort of reaction. You turned bright pink, so we dragged you home and dropped you into the tub. You were so drunk you and thirsty that—”
Addie gasps dramatically and her bright blue eyes pop like a startled lemur. “That’s right! The night she drank her bath water.”
The room fills with disgusted groans. I look pleadingly at Quinn. “Tell me they’re lying.”
“Just a few gulps. You chased half a bottle of vodka with half a bottle of Tuaca. What the hell did you think would happen? And you were bragging all night to…fuck…what was his name?” Quinn closes her eyes and taps her temples. She rolls her wrists as she looks around the room. “That TA that used to buy Reese lunch every other day trying to get into her pants…super tall…only ever wore khakis…always smelled like baby powder.”