What else could I possibly need?
Besides, thirtysomething, queer singles were a dime a dozen in Rose City, and I’d already dated half of them. The other half were people I’d known since kindergarten, and there was no way they would ever see me naked. That left granola-munching baby boomers, baseball boys who were barely out of college, and day-trippers from Portland.
Pass.
The store’s phone blared from across the room. I sidestepped the “back to school” display—books featuring characters who were teachers—in route to the reading nook where I’d left it after my call with a publisher this morning.
“Smutty Buddies,” I greeted. “Your friendly neighborhood romance peddler.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” a familiar, silky voice answered. I could practically hear her twirling a finger through her jet-black curls. “Is this the store owner, Nessa Gibbs.”
“I’m sorry,” I parroted. “Is this world-renowned photographer, Kaylani Hu?”
“The one and only,” she said around a giggle. “How the heck are you, Nessie?”
Speaking of thirtysomething, queer singles, it had been a hot minute since I’d heard from Kaylani. Then again, the woman spent the bulk of the year bushwhacking through Wi-Fi-free zones while photographing rare birds and Indigenous tribes. It was hard to believe that my once quiet and reserved childhood bestie had grown up to become an award-winning photographer. One whose photos had been published inNational GeographicandTime Magazine.Multiple times.
“Living the dream, Kay-lovely. Are you calling me from some remote island, surrounded by deadly creatures?”
I had lived vicariously through Kaylani’s postcards for years. Sri Lanka, Greenland, Antarctica. They decorated the wall behind my desk like wallpaper.
“Close. I’m in New York.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m coming home.”
That stopped me cold.
I hadn’t seen Kaylani—in person—for nearly three years. Not since Mom’s funeral. Her parents still lived in town, though they generally kept to themselves. And their chickens. Everybody knew that the Hus had the freshest eggs in town. But even farm-fresh eggs couldn’t keep Kaylani in Rose City. She’d zoomed out of town in her 2003 Honda Civic before our graduation caps had hit the gym floor.
“When do you get here? How long are you visiting? Do you need a ride from their airport? What can—”
“Slow down, Nessie.”
I paused to catch my breath and curb my excitement. June might have been my best friend since high school, but Kaylani was my oldest. She was single-handedly responsible for most of my firsts—first tattoo, first taste of alcohol, first hangover.
First kiss.
Because that was what bicurious teenage girls did—held each other’s hands while getting matching tattoos behind a Wendy’s and then made out. Also behind a Wendy’s.
“And to answer your questions, next week, to be determined, and no, my dad’s picking us up.”
“Us?”
“I’m . . . bringing somebody with me.”
“What kind of somebody?” I teased, sensing the implication from her tone.
“A certain special somebody.” She hesitated before adding, “A forever kind of somebody.”
And another one bites the dust.
I hated that that was my gut reaction. I wanted to be deliriously happy for my oldest friend finding her forever person, and I was . . . mostly. Like, 98.7%. That last little percentage was salty as fuck.
Soy sauce had nothing on me.
“Wow. That’s amazing.”
