Page 1 of Licks

Nine Years Ago

Aka Ground Zero for Gwen’s Worst Terrible Fuck-up

Gwen

Dictators and loan sharks needed to rethink their torture methods. Sure, waterboarding and sleep deprivation could break a man. Pulling out fingernails and smashing kneecaps were reliable interrogation techniques. But if you really wanted to make someone suffer, to reach into their chests and yank out their proverbial hearts, simply force them to scroll through Facebook.

All seemed innocent at first. I sat on my too-hard chair and stared at my laptop, ignoring the Hello Kitty stickers affixed by the previous owner. The usual images floated by:

Fake smile.

Fake smile.

Kissy face.

Cat playing piano.

Drunk shirtless dude.

My attention darted between my laptop’s flipping snapshots and my silent Blackberry, a cup of Jägermeister poised at my lips. Jägermeister was the butthole of birthday drinks. It tasted like cough syrup and bad decisions. It was a reminder of the bile-marinated blackout that would forever remain unspoken. An event that would not be repeated tonight.

Yet here I was, drinking Jäger, because underage beggars couldn’t be choosers, especially at 10 p.m. on my nineteenth birthday, while alone in my apartment, wondering why my best friend hadn’t texted me. The fact that we hadn’t spoken in over a year should have been a clue.

I sipped the Jäger and grimaced.

Fake smile.

Faker smile.

Pouty face.

Cutest baby koala on the planet.

Drunk frat boy…in a diaper.

And how did Facebook know which bra I was wearing? I peeked into the front of my gray V-neck and back at the sidebar advertisement. That was seriously creepy. And depressing. The black lace looked miles better on the model than on my less-endowed 34Bs, but the sight had me imagining my breasts and my former best friend’s large hands, our naked bodies, and a whole lot of heat.

A needy moan slipped past my lips.

Since the man in question had forgotten my birthday and had probably blocked my number, that particular scenario was as likely as me wearing pink nail polish. Not that I deserved a guy like August Cruz.

I poured another shot into my Badass Bitch mug and did the thing I pretended I wasn’t going to do: I clicked on August’s timeline.

A new profile photo filled my computer screen, and I bit my lip. The most pathetic sigh deflated my posture. His wavy dark hair was shorter these days, clipped at the sides and messily styled. His glasses were different—thicker frames than he used to wear, obscuring the gold flecks in his hazel eyes. He seemed to have bulked up, too. Unless his Lawn Enforcement Officer T-shirt had shrunk.

His clothing choice exacerbated my tipsy melancholy.

Had he worn that shirt because I’d given it to him? Did it remind him of me nipping at his heels and tossing clippings at his face as he’d cut our neighborhood lawns? Odds are it was nothing more than a comfortable relic—a T-shirt that would wind up in the trash one day, forgotten and cast away. Like me. Unless he’d consciously chosen to post the image, hoping I’d see it.

My next sigh was more heartsick than wistful.

I’d been down this unrequited-love road before. I’d walked it so often a permanent path had been forged behind my stinging eyes. I missed how August’s rumbling laugh would infect me with giggles. I missed the way he’d dribble a soccer ball around me in an athletic blur. How he’d sit behind me, arms and legs around my torso, teaching me to play guitar.

I missed the only person who could soothe me when my mother’s anger had burned through my lonely house.

These thoughts weren’t new, but his profile photo and that T-shirt jostled them, a violent shove that shook my foundation. A strange awareness overtook me. He must have chosen that image on purpose, knowing I’d see it and think of us. He must have launched that sign through cyberspace so I’d catch it. It seemed obvious now—Jägermeister obvious, but whatever: August must miss me as much as I missed him.

I had to reach out and tell him I understood him and his subliminal message, the way only I could. Considering his stupid girlfriend, Kayla Morgan, was evil incarnate and the reason everything with August had gone to shit, she probably treated him like crap. I should have singed her blond hair in chem lab when I’d had the chance. Instead I’d let her vicious words infect my mind, poisoning all thoughts of August.