"To be fair," I replied, "he said no before I said no."
"He didn't say no," Brooke argued. "He said, 'Let's go back to my house so we can play Jane and Tarzan.' The difference is remarkable." She signaled to the waiter for another pitcher of sangria. "It's worth noting that we have sufficient amounts of time and liquor to continue playing logical fallacy games but I'd love to hear the real story. The one you're hiding under a mountain of horseshit."
"I'm scared," I confessed. "I'm scared that I'm going to start things with Jackson and—"
"Hate to break it to you, honey," Brooke interrupted, "but you've already started."
"Brooke," I warned.
"Annette," she replied, matching my tone. "I'm just calling you on your shit. It's all I'm really good for."
That wasn't true but I'd deal with her comment later. "I'm scared that things are going to progress with Jackson," I started, shooting her a pointed look, "and I don't know if I'm ready for that. I don't know what I want. I don't even know him. I just don't trust myself to make the right decisions."
Brooke stared at me for a long beat and then said, "You're overthinking this. Forget about Owen Bartlett and the beautiful, fictitious babies you were going to have with him. The best remedy for that nonsense is getting laid. You're taking a simple situation and making it all kinds of extra. Stop worrying about everything. If you don't climb him like a jungle gym in the next few days, I'm going to do it."
I slammed my drink on the table as white-hot possessiveness zipped through me faster than I could comprehend. "You wouldn't."
Shrugging, Brooke continued, "I'll dig the Louboutins out, put on one of the two dresses that make me look like I have tits and an ass, and bring him some of mypie."
I could see it now. Her tiny waist wrapped in a mere scrap of fabric and her long legs made even longer by the most treacherous heels in her closet. She'd go for the full red lip, too. She always knew how to pull that off whereas I looked like a kid playing with Mom's makeup.
But I couldn't see Jackson's hands on her. As much as I attempted to torment myself with the sight of Brooke in Jackson's arms, I couldn't get there. In trying to mentally pair my best friend with the guy I couldn't get out of my head, I found myself toggling through the memories of his hands on me. The way he squeezed my waist when he picked me up and set me on his desk. The way he'd gripped my thighs when he'd tossed me over his shoulder. How he was rough but tender.
Despite the day's heat, a patch of goose bumps broke out on my skin. I refused to acknowledge the tightening of my nipples. They were on their own.
"Listen, girl. If you don't want to take what he's offering, someone else will," Brooke continued. "And that someone else will be me." She smiled at me, shrugging. "What? Is that a problem for you?"
I still couldn't see them together but even the thought of Brooke's hands on Jackson turned me inside out. Working hard to keep the cavelady screech out of my voice, I said, "Uh, yeah, it is." I shifted to face her. "Keep the Louboutins on the shelf and stay away from the cherry red lipstick."
"Really? Because I thought you weren't interested," she said, waving herI had no ideahands at me. "You've spent the entire afternoon telling me how it wouldn't work out and you didn't have feelings for him. Since you walked away and refuse to consider going back, I am left to infer that he's free for the taking."
Most people underestimated Brooke. They saw the hair, the face, the body first, and they assumed she was nothing more than a real-life Barbie doll. Head full of plastic, right? Wrong. She was whiz-bang smart and worked harder than anyone I knew. And she had the biggest heart. It was wrapped in barbed wire and kept on ice but huge nonetheless.
I tapped her elbow to grab her attention from the men a few tables away. "I'm going to say something and I need you to know it comes from a place of love."
Brooke rolled her hand, urging me to proceed. "Quickly, sweet pea. I need to get back to eye-fucking those guys."
"Sometimes you're a manipulative bitch."
She threw her head back and let out a throaty laugh. "Sometimes? That is literally on my business cards. 'Brooke Markham, Manipulative Bitch and Hedge Fund Manager.'"
"Is that what you do?" I asked.
"For fuck's sake, Annette," she muttered. "First you tell me I can't sink my hooks into your man meat and now you're saying you don't know the basic details of my professional life? I'm beginning to think we're not friends but acquaintances who drink and complain together."
"There's nothing wrong with being acquaintances who drink and complain," I said, raising my glass to meet hers with aclink. "Acquaintances who say things to each other that no one else will say, and not hate each other too much because of those things."
That was the straightforward but also convoluted truth. Adult friendships were complex. Ours certainly was.
"Stop it. I don't do sentimental," she whined. "And don't forget—we're basically the only thirtysomething single ladies in town. This is friendship born from scarcity."
"Of course," I replied, nodding along with her snarked-up version of reality. "Okay, this calls for a new law. If I've had his penis in my hand, you're not allowed to go after him. Bare, not over the clothes."
"Does that allow for dry humping?" When I leveled her with a scowl, she asked, "What? It's an important clarification."
"We're too old for dry humping," I said. "We're not seventeen anymore and we don't hookup with men in the back of someone's mom's minivan."
"Fine," she replied with a dramatic eyeroll. "Care to legislate anything else?"
