Nessa
“Iwould rather eat day-old, room-temperature gas station sushi.”
Subtlety had never been my strongest suit, much to my mother’s disappointment and my grandmother’s delight.
However, what I lacked in delicacy, I more than made up for with sass, a family trait passed down from one generation of Gibbs women to the next. Along with thick hair and a penchant for emotionally unavailable men, both of which I was still learning to master at the ripe age of thirty-four.
I could practically hear my Granny Gibbs’s voice now.
“Nessa bear,” she would say in that distinct smoker’s rasp of hers—marijuana, not cigarettes.“We may not be religious, but in this family, we worship at the altar of cuntology.”
Granny Gibbs, or GG as I called her, had served cunt—along with her famous marionberry pie—seven days a week for ninety-six years, up until the day she’d died. And she’d done itwith a blunt in her hand and Birkenstocks on her feet like a motherfucking icon.
Istillwanted to be Granny Gibbs when I grew up.
“C’mon, Ness,” June pleaded, looking up at me through those luscious lashes of hers.
June had the kind of eyelashes that most women paid good money for every six to eight weeks. More than that, she knew how to use them. Baby bulldogs had nothing on June’s puppy-dog eyes.
As if that weren’t enough, she also had a killer body—thick and sturdy on top like a swimmer, the complete opposite of me—and an IQ that was practically off the charts, though she never bragged about either. To quote one of my all-time favorite flicks, she had a “head for business and a bod for sin.”
I might have hated her if she wasn’t my best friend.
Thankfully, shewasmy best friend, which meant I knew she was always on my side . . . even when she wasn’t.
I squared my shoulders and smiled. “I would rather chop my own arm off with a plastic butter knife, slather it in Sriracha, and eat it raw.”
Hot sauce preference might have seemed humdrum to others, but I was a die-hard Tabasco fan, and June knew that.
She shook her head. “Now you’re just being dramatic.”
She was one to talk. This was the same woman who had driven across the country—fresh out of high school—just so she could expose her cheating girlfriend on a jumbotron at a pro basketball game. The same woman who cried hysterically every time she rewatchedToy Story 3and refused to go hiking if it was warmer than seventy-five degrees outside.
“What’s it going to take to convince you?” she asked.
“I would rather shit myself for the rest of my life, every time I sneeze then—”
“For fuck’s sake, you’ve made your point,” Nero interjected from behind the bar. He slung the rag he’d been using to dry highball glasses over his shoulder and smirked. “But just saying, sis, I don’t think it would kill you to go on one date.”
“Ablinddate,” I said, correcting him. “I don’t do blind dates.”
“A blind date withmy boyfriend’sco-worker’s roommate,” June amended. “Have a little faith, Ness. I’m not going to set you up with a compete weirdo.”
“Just a partial weirdo, then?”
She clucked her tongue.
I dragged my fingers through my unruly curls, gathering them into a haphazard bun atop my head. There were three things I never left home without: my “thigh rescue” anti-chafing stick (because thick thighs saved lives, but they also gave you chub rub), my grandmother’s engagement ring, which I wore on a chain around my neck, and a good, old-fashioned, 90s kid scrunchie.
Summers in Oregon were typically warm and sticky—made exponentially stickier over the last decade or so thanks to global warming—but ninety-three degrees in September was downright offensive. The high temps and humidity were wreaking havoc on my thick hair and thicker thighs. Even now, the fleshy, tattooed skin beneath my shorts was clinging to the barstool’s leather like Velcro.
Getting out of this seat is going to suck.
“I’ll do the store’s books for a month,” June offered, making me smile.
“Thanks, but I have an app for that.”
I couldn’t help but appreciate her tenacity. That was probably the thing I envied most about my best friend—more than her incredible rack and natural lashes—she always went after what she wanted, regardless of the possible outcomes. She hadn’t grown up playing “Consequences” like I had.
