“The batting you about the face with his cock guy,” she finishes. So darned stubborn. “The man who got away.”
“What? He didn’t get away. I broke up with him.”
“Because…”
“He was weird.”
“It wasn’t because he smacked your face with his penis?”
I stifle a laugh. “Youknowthat isn’t why I broke up with him. It was the other stuff. Remember the weird food hangups? Remember? And the—”
“Fish! Oh my god, that was Fish Guy.”
“Yep. I broke up with him because of the fish.”
She watches me, eyes big, mouth shut. I know what she’s thinking. We’ve been friends for that long.
And what she’s thinking is that the man in question, Eric Witmer, was odd in many ways, but I stayed with him for longer than I should have because of my very specific sexual proclivities.
I’d never explored them until him.
She smiles. “Yourealllllyliked getting slapped with his penis.”
My “shut up” has no oomph, because she’s so totally right. I loved it.
“You were also into the spanking, the getting tied up, and the trash-talking, slut-calling stuff.” She shakes herself. “Not for me, thanks.”
She doesn’t see me roll my eyes.
“Oh, and you looooooved when he shoved his—”
“I’m done here.”
“Wait. You should go to the camp.”
“What? No way.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the SMA is there.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call him that.”
“What Sexiest Man Alive? But he is.”
“Not really,” I lie.
“Are you saying it doesn’t get your goat that the man who convinced you to marry him—”
“You’re the one who convinced me.”
“Potato, potahto. The fact is, he promised you a gold mine and then literally destroyed every single thing you’ve worked for in—”
“Literallyeverything?”
“Your entire career’s down the drain. People are saying the worst shit.”
