“All right, crazy. Less gloating, more fixing my makeup,” I demanded, giggling at her antics.
“I feel like we need a kitchen dance party to commemorate this momentous occasion,” she announced, still dancing around in the silent room.
Kitchen dance parties were our thing. We had been doing them since college. They were used for happy times, horrible times, and everything in between.
When Cass told her nasty professor to suck it? Kitchen dance party.
When I got the coveted internship I was striving for? Kitchen dance party.
A hot barista asked Cass out? Kitchen dance party.
The time I managed to do all of our laundry with four quarters? Epic kitchen dance party.
There were only three rules: Rotate who got dibs on the music selection. No boys allowed. And always bring your A-dancing-game.
Some of my fondest memories of college were with Cass, dancing around in our shitty apartment, singing our hearts out. God, this girl, she was my rock. My favorite person to vent to, cry with, and most importantly, laugh my ass off with. I wouldn’t have traded her for anything.
“All right, sweet cheeks, you’re all set,” she announced, smirking down at me. “And your makeup is looking pretty damn fabulous if I do say so myself.”
I stood, taking in my appearance in the mirror. I touched my cheeks as I examined the gorgeous shades highlighting my eyes. She was right; neutral was better.
“Now, I didn’t go crazy, just went with subtle and your signature bright red lips. I still wanted you to look like my Wheorgie.” She winked. “You’re gorgeous, friend. Absolutely stunning.”
Without hesitation, I wrapped my arms around her, hugging her tightly. “Thank you. I love you so much, Cass.”
“Love you too.” She hugged me back.
We rocked back and forth a few seconds, until I whispered, “You really dated an optometrist named Wally?”
“Banged.” She laughed, shoving me away. “There was no dating. His name was Wally, for fuck’s sake.”
I pointed at her, grinning. “You’re a troll.”
She was completely unfazed by this. “I’m fully aware. I will not make apologies for my need to judge men by their names.”
“That is so weird. You know that, right?”
While some women judge men by their looks or clothes or money, Cass judged them by their names. It was one of her little quirks and it was off-the-wall bizarre, but downright hilarious. I’d seen her in action far too many times, a man asking her out or offering to buy her a drink, and her response always depended on one thing: his name.
The name was always the make it or break it in Cass’s dating life scenarios.
“I know, but I can’t help it. I can’t bring myself to date, much less marry, someone named Wally or Toby or Cliff. Just—” She shudders. “Nope, no way. I’ll never do it.”
“I need to know how staunch you are on this mindset.” My hand went to my hip. “Let’s talk hypotheticals. What if Jude Law asked you to marry him, but his name was actually Morty Law?”
She grimaced. “Nope. Sorry, Morty. Take your adorable accent somewhere else.”
“What about Angus Efron?”
A look of disgust crossed her face. “I don’t care how much cheese he can grate on his abs. Not happening.”
I stared at her for a few seconds, deciding if I really wanted to do it.
Cassie eyed me with skepticism. “Don’t you dare.” She pointed in my direction. “Don’t even think about it.”
I nodded, a mischievous grin spreading across my lips.
“Georgia,” she warned.
“What if…” I smiled, tapping my chin. “Eugene Tatum—” she gasped “—was naked, asking you to marry him while grinding against you to ‘Pony’?”
Channing Tatum was Cass’s guy. He would always be at the top of her list. When Magic Mike had come out, we’d seen the movie not one, but two times on opening night because she was a total hornbag for him.
“I hate you.” A hand towel was tossed into my face. “I’m going to forget you ever said that,” she grumbled, striding into the hallway.
Of course, I followed her. This was too good of an opportunity to pass up.
“You know? I think Eugene looked hotter in Magic Mike XXL.”
“Georgia!” Cassie threw her hands up in the air.
I leaned against the doorway as she rummaged through her closet. “What? I really think his stripteases were way sexier. Eugene can bring it. That’s for damn sure.”
“I will not let you ruin Tatum for me.”
“I’d never—” I raised both hands in the air “—ruin the appeal of Eugene Fillmore Tatum.”