“Gee, hello to you, too. You cranky?”
“No. Just tired. I can’t seem to get enough sleep lately.”
Uh-oh. Pregnant?
“And before you say anything, no, I’m not pregnant.”
I giggle into the phone. “I wasn’t going to assume you were. Now, shush, I need to tell you about my date.”
“Date? You went out on a date? Not with that creepy Billy? Bobby?”
“He’s not that creepy. He’s nice. But, no, the date was with Sam.”
“Sam Stone,” she shouts into the phone. I’m forced to pull the device away from my ear.
“Shh, you’ll wake my neighbors. Yes. Sam Stone.”
“How? When? Why didn’t you call me? What did you wear? Oh, wait. I remember. I dressed you, did your makeup and hair—so you looked perfect. Continue.”
I roll my eyes and tell the story of his visit to the shop, his kiss there, and the date. I attempt to leave out the make-out session at my place, but she won’t let me.
“So, you invited him inside your place?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And he thought the place was cool.”
“Not about your house, Mac. What happened?”
I sigh into the phone and tell her about the kissing and about moving into my bedroom—about his wandering hands and about him giving me the choice whether we stopped or continued.
“You stopped, didn’t you?” she groans.
“Of course I stopped.”
“It’s been like forever for you, girl. You need to get laid. You’d be so much happier if you were getting it on the regular.”
I snort out a laugh. “Whatever.” She’s probably right, but I’m not about to tell her that.
“Next time, just rip off your clothes as soon as you walk in the door and let him have his way with you. If it gets you some man meat, then I don’t care what it sounds like.”
Man meat? Yuk. Now I’m full-on laughing. I mean, head thrown back, laughing so loud that I’m sure my upstairs neighbors can hear me. “Stop. Lauren, jeez. You sound like a raunchy romance novel. But I do have another date with him.”
“What? When?”
“Friday. He’s picking me up at work again.”
“I can’t sleep over again on Thursday, but I’ll be there at the ass crack of dawn to help you get ready. I’ll bring some clothes.”
“Lauren,” I whine. “You don’t need to do that. I can dress my damn self.”
“I know you can, honey. But let me just do this, okay? I need to be a part of this.” Now it’s Lauren who’s whining.
“Fine. Be here early Friday morning. But on that note, I’ve got to get to sleep. I’m exhausted.” The truth is, I want to be done talking about this—even with Lauren.
“Call me tomorrow. I’ll have more questions,” Lauren demands.
