I push the Dorito bag a bit closer to my friend as I eye her pensively. “Ever consider becoming a poet, Wynona?”
We all crack up at that.
“You should’ve heard her rap Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Raven’ back in tenth grade English,” Josie says, looking up, hand flying to her chest as she shakes her head with delight. “Standing ovation, that got. Glorious, it was.”
“Glad my pain is so amusing to you two,” Wynona comments drily, although she’s smiling as she reaches for a chip.
“I think this calls for some face masks,” I say, rising.
Josie gulps. She knows what’s in store for us. “It’s time?”
I nod. “It’s time.”
An hour of mask time and watching Scary Movie later, my phone alarm goes off.
“Now, it’s really time,” I say, grinning.
“We couldn’t wait until…” Josie trails off, knowing that it’s hopeless. We’re going to have to take off these masks eventually. Not that I blame her for trying to put it off a bit longer. She’s basically a wimp when it comes to pain.
“Let’s get this over with,” Wynona says glumly.
She’s hardly laughed at any of the jokes in Scary Movie 3, and her mouth has hardly changed from that twisted frown, like she ate something rotten and has to deal with it.
Minutes later, we rip off the masks, squealing and laughing our heads off at how red yet gloriously baby-smooth our skin underneath is. At least, Josie and I do. Wynona just stands there, glaring at her reflection like it’s to blame for her current pain. Which I guess, in a way, it is.
Apparently, with Jeremy, the word ‘soulmate’ was tossed around. Apparently, he even had their wedding spot picked and everything. The same weekend he cheated on her with some stripper he’d met at… you guessed it, a strip club. A strip club he’d apparently been a regular at.
Jesus, men can be animals. People can be, really, but what this guy did to my friend makes me want to…
“Hey,” Josie says softly, leaning over to give her a side-squeeze. “Your skin looks really good.”
“Wonderful,” Wynona says with no emotion. Then she sighs. “Sorry for being such a downer, guys. Maybe I should just go.”
“No!” I protest. “I didn’t even tell you about…”
I trail off, trying to think of what exactly I haven’t told her about since the 12 or so hours ago I saw her last.
“Your meet-up with super-hot jerk,” Josie provides.
“Oh, right.” I press my lips together. Not exactly the topic I’d choose, but Wynona has perked up with interest, so I guess that’s something. “Yeah, so I went to see him, and surprise, surprise, he was still a jerk.”
A pretty succinct summary, but I’m not really eager to recount our meeting. Already, there’s a weird feeling in my stomach, and I’m replaying the final scene in my mind, me staying, asking: “Hey. Did you mean what you said about making it up to me?”
“That’s not all,” Josie points out. “You said he wasn’t as much of a jerk. And he apologized.”
“And offered to make it up to me,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
Sierra. You stupid, stupid woman.
“What?!?” Josie says, spraying wine she’s so surprised. “You definitely didn’t mention that. You’ve been holding out on me!”
“For like a couple hours,” I mumble. “Anyway, it wasn’t a big deal. He ended up getting in this argument with some contractor guy, and I just left.”
“Without saying goodbye?” Josie says, frowning at me, though she already knows the answer.
“Sorry, Mom,” I grumble back. “I wasn’t about to stand around waiting for some jerk to remember I’m there.”
“Come off it,” Wynona chimes in. “You ran away.”
“I did not,” I protest, cheeks heating up.
“You did so,” Josie says, shaking her head and tut-tutting. “Come on, Sie, we know you. Remember what you did for prom when Eric asked you?”
“I… just had to check something,” I mutter.
“You run away when you like a guy.” Wynona strokes the length of her nose, evidently amused by its post-mask smoothness. “Admit it.”
“OK.” I stand up. “I don’t know when the topic switched to me and my love life—or lack thereof—but I don’t like it.”
“You’re right.” Wynona visibly deflates in her seat, apparently remembering she had some chips in her mouth as she starts chewing. “We should continue on with my poor life choices.”
“Hey now,” Josie protests with a wagging finger. In the matter of a day, she’s switched her nail shade to bright yellow and orange. “No one ever said you make poor life choices.”
Wynona rises. “Well, you’re both thinking it.”
“No, we’re not,” I say, rising too. “Wyn, none of us really has it together, OK?” I stand there, feeling so useless. I want to hug her, tell her I love her, tell her that I know she’ll find a guy who doesn’t treat her like trash, a guy who recognizes how amazing she is. But I also want to tell her to stop choosing assholes. So, I just sit there and babble out something else: “Want to know what would be a poor life choice? Me texting that guy.”