“I do, actually.” I place both hands on my hips and take long strides toward the kitchen, exaggerating every movement and showing off my obscene Hawaiian pants. The floral design is obnoxious and worse than any shirt on a senior retiree.
Sam claps and cheers for me through her fit of snorts. “I seriously would’ve liked to be there when you bought those.”
“They were the last pajamas in the shop,” I explain. “Just wait until you see what I’m wearing on our hike tomorrow.”
“Damn. Now I’m going to be up all night trying to guess what it is.”
As Sam hops down the steps toward the couch, I can’t help but stare at her swaying hips. It’s obvious she was previously a model. Sam’s beyond beautiful, with her large brown eyes, olive complexion, and long legs. She’s also the perfect height for me to comfortably rest my chin on her head when we hug.
How did I not realize the latter before this week?
“What aboutForgetting Sarah Marshall?” she calls over her shoulder as she scrolls through the guide on the TV.
“It’s fitting.” I toss a bag of complimentary popcorn into the microwave, then open the fridge to retrieve one of the cans from a six-pack I brought from our old room. “I’m having a beer. Want one?”
“I’ll have a glass of the skinny margarita,” she says, but her voice comes from right behind me, followed by the sound of a cabinet closing.
Holding a red cup in one hand, she reaches around me with the other for a tall yellow bottle, then pours herself a drink. After a sip, she asks, “Want to check out the posts I drafted this morning? One is me addressing and apologizing for the leggings situation, and the other is the big unveiling of my secret boyfriend’s identity.”
“Sure.” The quick and loud popping sounds echo between us from the microwave as I face her, crossing my arms over the sunglasses-wearing pineapple cartoon across my shirt. “Have you heard fromDoucheany more?”
Sighing, she scrolls through her phone. “I sent him a single message to let him know I’m handling the situation and that I don’t want to be tied to him, either. Let’s just say, I made my dislike for himveryclear.”
Why does that make me deliriously happy? “Did he answer?” I ask carefully.
“He left me a voice message, which was hard to understand because of all the mumbling. He’s not used to rejection, especially when he thought he was the one in control.” She rolls her eyes, smug and content. “Fucking asshole.”
“Won’t argue there,” I mumble and rock on my heels. I take a sip of the cold beer in my hand and get lost in the slope of her shoulder.
The way she bites her lip on one side—it’s always the left.
As she concentrates on the screen of her phone, she wiggles her toes too. It’s a quirky tic of hers when she’s nervous, and right now, I can relate, although my reaction is not from concern that these posts hold my future in their tiny, digital palms.
It’s because I have to adjust myself and hope she doesn’t look up in time to catch me in the act.
“Okay, here’s the caption for the first post.” She hands me her phone with an Instagram draft pulled up on the screen.
The microwave beeps between us, and a few kernels make sad pops as they give up with no more heat. As Sam reaches up to retrieve our evening snack, her shirt rides higher above the waistband of her cotton shorts, and I quickly drop my attention away from the torture and onto the phone screen.
Except that’s torture in itself.
The image is the one I took of her in the hammock, where she wore a flowy dress the color of her pink nails. Her back is to the camera, highlighting the lean muscles there, and the palm trees stand tall on either side of her like props. She edited the picture with a filter and cropped the sides too, and it looks like it belongs in a magazine.
I tear my focus from it and scan the text, where she apologizes for her absence and for the incident itself. The rest of the caption makes jokes about being human, and at the end, she says she has a special announcement to stay tuned for.
Our relationship.
Even though I know it’s fake, the thought makes my hard dick stir.
“It’s good,” I rasp and clear my throat. “Relatable and funny. People will respond well to it, and if they don’t, they know where the unfollow button is.”
She laughs into her handful of popcorn, and it makes me smile.
“Hey, you started without me,” I tease. “Wait—you don’t eat this shit. What gives?”
“I have cheat meals and snacks. I had my seafood pasta earlier, and now I’m having my dose of buttery goodness. Only a couple of handfuls, though.” She passes me the bag and claps. “Okay, okay, I’m just going to post it. Why wait, right?”
“Exactly.” I take another sip of beer and exchange her phone for the popcorn.