“I know that feeling.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Outside, a bachelorette party walked past wearing matching t-shirts and plastic tiaras. Someone was playing saxophone somewhere nearby, the notes drifting through the open door.
“Thank you,” Lizzie said suddenly. “For apologizing. And for this.”
“You’re welcome. And I’m sorry again for being so cold. I’ll try to do better.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” She paused, then looked up. “I’m sorry about the kiss at the party, by the way. I forgot there was a kiss at the end. I wouldn’t have suggested it if I had remembered.”
“It’s alright. It was nothing. Ask me beforehand next time though,” she said but she could not meet her eyes.
“Sure thing,” she replied and finished off her crepe.
“Right, now that you have something in your stomach, I think we’re ready. How about I show you some of the best bars around?”
Lizzie nodded and got up. As she did, Sarah’s eyes were drawn to her breasts that looked magnificent in her tight shirt. She gulped, trying not to think of the fact that she’d touched herself while thinking of Lizzie’s body. But damn, it was almost impossible.
Chapter 9
Lizzie
They walked down Duval Street together, Sarah pointed out bars as they passed, giving Lizzie the rundown on which ones worked for the crawl and which ones to avoid. They stopped in front of a large building that was crowded with people.
“McHale’s is an Irish pub style place. I always recommend it for groups.”
“Should we go in?”
Sarah checked her watch. “Sure. One drink.”
Inside, the pub was dark and cozy. A soccer match played on the TV above the bar. They found two stools near the end.
“What do you want?” Sarah asked.
Lizzie scanned the beer taps. “I don’t know. What’s good?”
“Guinness.”
“That sounds heavy.”
“It is. But it’s the best.” Sarah turned to the bartender. “Two Guinness.”
The bartender, a woman in her fifties with a thick Irish accent, started pouring. The beers arrived, dark and thick. Lizzie took a sip and tried not to make a face.
“Not a fan?” Sarah was trying not to smile.
“It’s very... beer-like.”
“That’s the point.” Sarah took a long drink. “You’ll get used to it.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. The pub smelled like fried food and sweat. Someone at the other end of the bar was arguing about the soccer match.
“So tell me about this novel you’re writing,” Sarah said. “Three generations of women keeping secrets?”
“Yeah. It’s probably a mess right now.” Lizzie traced the rim of her glass. “My professor keeps telling me I over-explain everything. Like I need to trust the reader more.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like instead of saying ‘she was nervous,’ I should show her picking at her nails or whatever. Let the reader figure it out.”
