~ 25 ~
PEYTON
“Alright, go on then. Let’s hear it.”
Ripley leaned back into his rattan chair, the dry, woven reeds crackling noisily beneath his weight. He looked happy, but tired. We all did, really. Right now though, none of us were willing to go to bed.
“Fine,” I relented. “Worst guy I ever dated?”
“Yup.”
“Worst as in, sucks in bed?” I chuckled. “Acts like a child? General, basic assholery? I mean we have a lot of categories to choose from, here.”
“We want to hear something utterly ridiculous,” Ripley pressed. “Preferably, over the top nuts. Right?”
He elbowed Colson, standing nearby, staring out three windows at once. He only broke his vigilance for a split-second. Just enough to nod.
“Alright, let’s see…” I bit my lip. “Oh, okay. There was this one guy I went out with who had a full back tattoo. Ribcage to ribcage. Head to crack.”
Colson and Ripley exchanged amused glances.
“So what? That’s notsobad.”
“Of himself,” I added.
“Oh.”
“Dressed as a gladiator.”
Their eyes went wide. “Seriously?”
“If I remember it right, he was holding a sword, and beheading an enemy. And then holding the head up with his free hand.”
“Yikes.”
It was late, and dark, and the air was palpably still. There wasn’t even an ocean breeze to cool us off as we waited, patiently, for Theo to finish his all-important job.
“And what about the two of you?” I pressed. “Your turn. Let’s hear some girlfriend horror stories.”
“Oh man,” Ripley swore. “Where do I start?”
“The beginning would be nice.”
He squinted. “You mean the first girl who ever—”
“No, no,” I cut him off. “I mean, you could talk about her if you wanted to. But it could be anyone you went out with.”
He interlaced his fingers behind his head, arms flexing as he exposed even more tattooed muscle. His eyes unfocused, as he thought back though his dating history — or lack, thereof. For some reason, I got the distinct impression it was the latter.
“Last girl I dated, her lock screen was a picture of herself.”
I chuckled. “That’s a bit of a red flag, I guess.”
“I thought so too,” Ripley muttered, “but I dated her anyway. She took dozens of photos, everywhere we went. Almost all of them were of her making duck lips, and a ‘V’ with her fingers.”
“Who were the photos for?”
“Fuck if I know,” Ripley shrugged. “You’re a woman. You tell me.”
