I scoff. “Right.
“So what’s the look for‘sorry I’m a clithead’?”
I smile despite the nerves crawling through me. Because the question she left me with is haunting my chest…
One I didn’t want to put in the air, say out loud, but it’s been stomping on the bones of my ribcage, trying to climb out: What if one second with him in the same room breaks me worse than the night he left?
“Celie?”
She already knows.
She can hear it in my voice.
“I'm there, Allie. Nine o’clock. Rosé in hand.
“You don’t gotta do this alone.”
“Celie, if that bottle’s under thirty dollars with a twist cap, don’t fuckin’ bother,” I warn her. “If I’m gonna mess with my vagina’s health, it better come from France with a cork.” I curl my toes into the AstroTurf. “Not that sugar bomb nonsense.”
“Here you go again.” She cackles.
“Your bougie-ass cooch always got demands.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead. Judge the upkeep,” I throw out. “But that's why this bougie-ass cooch gotta waitlist.”
// 11:44 PM - THE CLOVER - WEST VILLAGE //
I never texted him back.
The realization slams into me the second I step up to The Clover.
My eyes go wide.
My stomach drops.
My brain's yelling at me
to turn right back around.
Shit.
Fuckin’ moron.
I never confirmed, much less replied.
I just read his message and let it rattle inside me for six hours while spinning in circles, pacing the penthouse, wired on adrenaline, fear, and no fucking game plan.
My pulse is pounding, my throat closing up.
I should’ve texted back.
Now he’s not going to be expecting me.
And I?—
I might’ve already fucked this up.
I stand outside the door, skin flirting with frostbite, tasting winter in every fogged breath, tugging at the hem of my black mini skort—courtesy of Celie.
