Tiziano, Makena, and I looked at one another with wide eyes, then burst into laughter.
“I’m going full MacKenzie tonight,” I announced as I slipped into my sleeveless tartan dress, braless. The jet-black bodice fit me like my true skin, dipping into a C-neck, but the skirt made the statement. Cinched high at the waist with a black corset-style lace-up, it flared out into an asymmetrical hem of MacKenzie tartan: deep forest green crisscrossed with midnight blue, like storm clouds over a forest caught in plaid.
It swirled with every step.
Tiziano whistled.
Makena whooped. “Woo, girl, rebellion stitched into bitchy elegance!”
“Our heritage is important,” Amaia said. “Why don’t you wear a kitenge, Mak?”
“Not for a party!”
“You’ll get Mr. Dicky anyway,” I said, jiggling her Taylor Swift friendship bracelets.
“Misters, plural.” She squeezed my cheek. “I’m not picky, unlike Tizzy over here.”
Tiziano scoffed. “I like the virile werewolf, you know. The typical possessive, I-like-meat, BD energy hunk. I can’t waste myprecious time with plump ones like that George dude. He looked like that little piglet,Babe.”
“A little pig goes a long way!”Amaia hooted.
I chuckled, sipping my cider.
“The first time you saw George, you couldn’t keep quiet about how perfect he would be under you. And now you’re getting all salty and defensive because he never called you back.” Makena slapped his back, making him choke on his drink.
“Brat! I wouldn’t have answered him anyway! And how about you and the enemy, huh?” he fired back swiftly, referring to the time she’d slept with Gentle Eyes.
Tiziano had drastically disinfected her room and corridor in his usual exaggerated way. Normally I would have laughed, and Ihadlaughed at the time, but not anymore. I thought about practical things like, would he send me on a disinfectant retreat when he learned who my mate was? Or sacrifice rival wereball fans to the Moon Goddess to request a new mate for me?
I still hadn’t found the right moment to tell him my news. Now definitely wasn’t the right time, as we were heading for Tipsyland. Tiziano always got more aggressive when he drank, all his barely-there filters dropping.
“You can do so much better. There’re plenty of wolves in the woods. You’d know from experience.”
“So what? Science says were-men are good for the health of my vagina.”
Amaia covered her mouth to burp a little. “Blasphemy! There’s no research to prove that, and you know it, so stop that!”
You could never ever use the name of science in vain with Amaia.
A drunk Amaia was a sight that we all enjoyed profusely, with imaginary popcorn in hand. Wearing an oversized blazer over a bralette and cycling shorts paired with her chunky sneakers, herhair let loose for once, Amaia was letting the rest of herself loose, too.
“A toast!” I lifted my glass. They all followed suit. “To us feminist doctors, with steady hands and high standards.”
We clinked.
“And to the big penises who haven’t found their way to our pelvic floors yet!” Makena giggled.
“May the qualified candidates hurry up,” Tiziano shouted, “and ward off saggy testicles!”
“The lower the testicles, the colder the sperm,” Amaia added.
“Hear-freaking-hear!” I said, and we knocked our drinks together once more.
The evening continued with more drinks spilled on the floor and across Tiziano’s satin sheets, laughter and light-heartedness prevailing as we left patients, disappointing men, and upcoming exams outside our heads.
When we fully crossed the borders of Tipsyland, we decided it was time to head to the party.
We entered the club without problem, our thanks going to Makena for knowing the bouncer. Shrieking laughter and deep techno music swept over me like a strong wind as my eyes glided over the purple-lit room.
