I exhale slowly. “Cheers. At least that’s one thing off my plate.”
Lizzie beams at me, clearly pleased with herself for being so helpful. If only she channeled that eagerness into more productive endeavors—like not leaving her knickers on the living room floor.
Just as I’m about to launch into a lecture on the importance of proper storage solutions, and why bras don’t belong draped over lampshades, Lizzie’s phone buzzes loudly.
“Ooh, unknown number!” she squeals, practically diving for her phone. “It could be the director I’m waiting on. Oh my god.” She sucks in a dramatic breath, then purrs a breathy, “Hello?”
But just as quickly as the excitement appeared, it drains from her face. “Oh, hi,” she says, her voice now flat.
There’s a pause as the person on the other end speaks. I vaguely make out a man’s voice.
“Yeah, sorry, I’ve just been so crazy busy lately.” Another pause as Male Voice responds. “Hmm, actually, my friend just . . . died. So it’s really not a good time right now. Maybe we can revisit things in a few weeks?”
I stare at her, my eyebrows shooting up.
“Yes, the friend I live with,” Lizzie continues, ignoring my incredulous expression. “Taken from us in the prime of her life. It’s just so tragic and sad.” She lets out an exaggerated sigh.
What the actual fuck?I mouth at her.
She waves me off with a dismissive flick of her wrist.
“Yeah, it was a horrific car crash. Absolutely devastating, I’m just . . . an utter wreck over it all, as you can imagine.”
Out of nowhere, she starts grinding the phone against the couch cushion, like she’s trying to start a fire with the damn thing.
Winnie, deeply offended by this mistreatment of her favorite napping spot, meows furiously and swats at Lizzie’s hand—to no avail.
After a few seconds of this bizarre behavior, she brings the phone back to her ear. “Hello?” shewhimpers.“Are you still there?” More vigorous cushion rubbing ensues. “So weird, I’m getting crazy static on the line. You’re cutting out.” Rub rub rub. “I think we’re losing the connection here.”
She shoots me a grin. “Oops, sorry, I’m going through a tunnel,” she says, even though the only tunnel she’s going through is the one leading straight to Looneytown.
With one final rub, she stabs the end call button.
I gape at her. “I’m sorry, did you just murder me to avoid a bad date?”
She sighs. “It was that guy from last week. You know, the one who kept rubbing my cheek like a creepy uncle?”
I nod slowly, pieces clicking into place. “The one you thought looked like Prince William with all his hair?”
“Yeah.” She grimaces. “I got a teeny bit tipsy, thought he was an absolute dreamboat, and shagged him in a moment of very poor judgment. But it was just the Pinot Grigio talking. I woke up the next morning, and I’m sorry, I’m shallow, okay? I realized he wasn’t the same guy as the night before. His face was all wrong, like someone had tried to sculpt Prince William out of Play-Doh and gave up halfway through. And his voice, oh god his voice. It was squeakier than Winnie’s mouse toy.”
She shudders, like the memory physically pains her. “I was so embarrassingly into him that night, practically ready to have his royal babies. I just can’t let him down gently now without looking like a complete hypocrite.”
I stare at her, hand on my hip. “So, naturally, the most logical and mature solution was to fake your roommate’s death and then pretend you’re in a tunnel on the Underground, rather than just telling him you’re not interested like an adult.”
“I panicked, okay? I’m not good under pressure. I was going to write him this long, beautiful message to let him down easy. Real Nicholas Sparks–like shit. But then he ambushed me with a withheld number! Talk about playing dirty, the sneaky fucker.”
Face-planting into her hands, she lets out a groan so pitiful I almost feel bad for her.
“I’m a shitty human. I knew about three seconds into the sex that I’d made a mistake. You know when you go for a massage and the masseuse is being really delicate? And they keep asking ‘is that pressure okay?’ And you’re like, ‘No, Marie, can you please just use your damn hands and not just your pinky finger? But then they only press a teeny bit harder. They’re barely grazing your skin until you’re so frustrated you’re ready to scream into the face hole. So for the whole massage, you’re just lying there, unsatisfied, wondering why you bothered to take your clothes off in the first place?”
I nod. “I see where this is heading.”
“Exactlywhat fucking this guy was like. He kept talking to me during the act, but not in a sexy, dominating ‘on your knees, you filthy slut’ kind of way. No, it was more ‘is this angle okay for you? Do you need another pillow? Are you hydrated enough?’ I mean, for fuck’s sake, just grab me by the hair and rail me like you mean it, you know?”
I nod in commiseration, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I’ve had a few of those types.”
It’s been so long I might even be okay with one of those types now.
