The worst part is, I threw myself at him—offered up my body on a platter, which is totally not my thing. I’m responsible. I stay safe and comfortable. And then he refused to have sex with me because I was emotionally “vulnerable.” He more than made up for the lack of penetration, but that doesn’t negate my embarrassment, particularly since I went apeshit on all his clothes and proved I’d gone from “vulnerable” to unstable in a matter of hours. Nor does it temper my regret. That man can eat a pussy like nobody’s business. And his fingers, and his mouth, and—Jesus I need to stop thinking about him mostly naked and touching me.
I groan and stare at my reflection. I look like absolute crap. I almost never wear makeup, and the only stuff I have is meant for figure skating competitions. I thought about putting some on tonight, but I didn’t want to look like a street-walking clown. Also, the powder crap makes my skin itchy. My hair is flat, and so is my chest. I glance down at my pathetic cleavage. I need to gain five pounds, in my boobs. There’s nothing I can do about my sad little barely B-cups.
I rummage through my purse, searching for something beyond lip balm. Anything with a hint of color would be better than the look I’m rocking now. I bet Momma Two has an endless supply of sparkly tubes in her bag. She wears an insane amount of makeup. And hairspray. She’s worn her hair the same way for as long as I can remember. I’m not sure if she just loved Dallas and can’t let it go, but her hair is a special kind of fashionably unfortunate.
I find a tube at the bottom of my purse. The top has come off, and there’s all sorts of gunk stuck to the lipstick. Snatching a few squares of toilet paper from the roll, I remove the dirt and flakes of old granola bar before I rub it over my lips. It’s a bright, obnoxious shade of pink. I blot it with the toilet paper, but all I do is smear it over my mouth.
“Damn it.” I grab a paper towel from the roll. Running it under the water, I pump some foam soap onto it and scrub at my lips, trying to get the pink off. The soap gets in my mouth, the chemical taste making me gag.
Someone knocks on the door. Almost no one knows about this bathroom.
“I’ll be out in a minute!” I shout over the running water. All the scrubbing has left redness around my mouth. Now I have to hide in a dark corner until my skin calms down. I slather my lips in a shiny clear gloss that’s also lurking at the bottom of my bag, turn off the water, and open the door.
Sunny’s standing on the other side with her arms crossed over her chest. She’s effortlessly beautiful. She can roll out of bed with her perfect blond hair a matted mess, and she still looks ready for the runway. She’s currently dressed in a huge hockey jersey, a pair of black yoga pants—from lululemon, of course, because that’s what her brother buys her—and a pair of flats. She’s modelesque. If I didn’t love her, I’d hate her.
Violet, her soon-to-be sister-in-law stands beside her. She only comes up to Sunny’s shoulder. She’s a tiny thing with huge boobs and this amazing long hair that’s not brown or red, but somewhere in between. Her eyes are a fabulous shade of green. Neither one of them is wearing a stitch of makeup, as far as I can tell, and both of them are gorgeous. Next to Violet is another girl. I’ve met her once before, but I can’t remember her name. She’s also stunning. It’s a whole squad of them.
“I knew you’d be hiding in here.” Sunny flips her hair over her shoulder.
“I’m not hiding.”
Sunny raises a brow.
“What happened to your face?” Violet asks, leaning closer. “It’s all red.”
“I got something on it. I was trying to rub it off, and I made it worse.”
“What’d you get on it?” Violet gets even closer; she’s right inside my bubble.
I’ve met her a bunch of times now. She’s kind of crazy, in a good way, but I’m used to people being a little less in my face. That’s probably because I give off a bitchy vibe or whatever. Violet seems immune to it.
“Just…” I flounder around for a second, trying to come up with a lie. I don’t want to tell them I was putting on lipstick because Sunny’ll know I’m trying to get pretty for Randy. “… stuff.”
“Stuff?” Violet asks.
“It’s not important. We should probably get to the bar before it’s super busy.”
“Was there a guy in there with you? Do you mean jizz stuff?” Violet brushes past me and opens the bathroom door.
The girl whose name I can’t remember shakes her head. “Just ignore her. She’s lost it.”
“I have not lost it, Char! That’s a totally legit question.” She looks to me as though I’m going to confirm the legitimacy of having a reaction to jizz on my face. At my silence, she continues her explanation. “Sometimes, when Alex eats too many suicide wings, his jizz makes my chest red.”
Sunny cringes, because Alex happens to be her brother, I assume. “I think I need a mojito.”
“Ohh! Good plan!” Violet threads her arm through Char’s and leads her down the hall. “Come on, ladies, let’s drink too much and share jizz stories.”
“Is she always like this?” I mutter.
“She’s stressed about the engagement party. She’s been drinking out of a flask the entire game, according to Charlene.” Sunny twirls a lock of hair around her finger. “I’m concerned about her.” She turns her attention back to me. “How about you? Are you okay? I thought you said you’d be fine to see Randy.”