Ben looks down at his phone, his brows furrowing, before looking back up at me.
“She sounds like she was pretty amazing.”
“She was. What about you? Did you always want to be an entrepreneur?”
He smiles, that cute little dimple in his chin deepening.
“Honestly, yeah. I always knew I wanted to work with my brother. I knew I didn’t want a boss, that I wanted something that was mine. The marina wasn’t in the plans, but it worked. I’m glad we stayed in Tampa to be around family. Do you have anyfamily in the area?” he asks, as his phone buzzes frantically on the table. “I’m so sorry. Let me take this.”
He picks up the phone and I drink my coffee, loving that the conversation is going easier than I imagined. But I almost fear that it’s crossing a boundary. Blurring the lines between fuck friends and real friends. Does there need to be a line between the two?
“Fuck, are you okay? You need to go to the hospital? Fuck. Okay, okay. I can be there in twenty minutes. You’re sure you’re okay?” he says, his eyes going wide.
He ends the call, grabbing some cash out of his wallet and placing it on the table.
“I’m so sorry. My brother was in a car accident. I have to go…fuck. I’ve got to go,” he says frantically.
“Do you want me to drive you?” I ask him and he swallows, shaking his head.
“Sorry to run out on you like this. I’ll see you around,” he says in a rush, as he rushes out of the restaurant.
I feel like I have whiplash from the encounter and I realize I don’t have his number to check on him later and see how his brother is doing.
Shit.
15
DRAG AND DRAGGED
Drag showbrunch was a socially acceptable excuse to get wasted in the middle of the day and there wasn’t anything anyone could say about it.
Savannah was finally on the tenure track, and we were celebrating. Hard. So hard I knew I’d regret it come tomorrow morning.
Twatzilla was doing her set to the song Get Ur Freak On by Missy Elliot. The drag queen was currently shaking her ass on a bald, nondescript white man while I was on number who knew how many mimosas of the afternoon.
I felt lighter than I had in a long time, my lips as loose as my wallet as I held out a twenty dollar bill. Twatzilla, the icon that she was, shoved my hand down her cleavage as she shimmied her ass to the beat and pretended to spit in my mouth along with the song.
The three of us could barely stop laughing as they announced it was intermission and to help ourselves to more food before it was gone. The french toast, berries, and bacon did nothing to soak up the alcohol in my system.
Chelsea holds up her champagne glass, and me and Savannah did the same. “To Sav! We’re so proud of you, sweetie.”
“We really are. This is incredible. You’re incredible,” I nearly slurred.
But she was incredible. My friends were the most beautiful and perfect women in the world and I wanted to sob into my champagne with a splash of orange juice over the fact they were the most perfect angel babies on the planet.
“I want to do something awesome. Something big. I was thinking—a sexy photoshoot,” Savannah says, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’ve let me take pictures of you before. You’re perfect. You could be my model along with some hot ass stud we find,” Savannah says, giving me puppy dog eyes.
“I’m not getting naked in front of students.”
“No, something tasteful, like leotards, or maybe that panty set you bought last year at Cline’s.”
“I’ll think about it,” I tell her, not wanting to make a drunken promise.
“Have you been fucking any hotties who might be interested?” she says, talking with her hands, the drink spilling over her knuckles.
