“My grandad survived a death march. He couldn’t stand the New York winters. At least my grandparents respected each other. Theirs was a marriage of convenience, of survival. But, also of friendship and comradeship.” She swipes the silky strands of her bangs aside. “They’d always tell me not to be so picky. Don’t be greedy, don’t take risks for the sake of happiness, but rather find happiness in stability and security.” Her sad gaze returns to me. “Theyweregood to me, in some ways better than my parents.”
“You’re too much for my heart to handle sometimes, Lore,” I whisper, my hand moving to caress her cheek. Her gaze fills with tenderness, her palm resting on my chest.
“If I ever give you a heart attack, Cupcake, it’ll be during sex.”
“Lauren!” I can’t help but laugh. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“You know why.” And she’s right.
It’s these moments, this raw emotion between us, that causes us to expose the most painful parts of ourselves to each other without inhibition. We don’t have the privilege of allowing that feeling to take over.
Just then, Mendo comes out carrying two breakfast trays piled with Cuban bread slathered in butter and pressed flat in an electric grill, a steaming Café con Leche on each tray that smells like it’s about to top the charts as the best coffee I’ll ever drink. The Pan Tostado is crunchy and firm like a baguette, but ironed thin in the pressed heat, making it moist and flaky in all the right places, perfect for dunking.
“This is so fuc—” I stop when Lauren throws me a sideways glance. “So darn good.”
“Was that so hard?” She flashes me a sassy grin, and I roll my eyes.
“No, but it didn’t have the same ring to it.”
“Well, I appreciate you making the effort for me, Cupcake.”
“Anything for you, Rockstar.” I wink playfully, but I mean every word. And by the way Lauren’s eyes twinkle, I suspect she knows it.
* * *
Lauren
“Come on, Lauren.” Hattie taps her foot impatiently. “It’s drinks after work with the girls, not a blind date.”
“I just want everyone to like me.” I finish applying my lipstick, throwing the tube into my bag.
“What are you talking about?” Hattie frowns, her dark green eyes inspecting me closely. “Everyone already likes you.”
“Really?” I blink at her, wondering why they would when they don’t even know me.
“Yeah. You’re really nice and snappy in a fun, non-bitchy kind of way.” She places a hand on my arm. “Lauren, why do you think we don’t like you?”
“I never went out with you guys, and you just stopped asking.”
“Yes, we gave up on asking, but not because we don’t like you.” Hattie shakes her head. Her black curls are loose today, and the tight coils bounce around with the motion. “We thought you didn’t likeus, that you preferred to hang out with Jason’s pressed shirt friends.”
“No,” I whisper, once again overwhelmed by all the things I allowed myself to miss out on for what I perceived as safe.Be good, do as they say, and you’ll be taken care of.My mother’s words echo through my head.
“Hey, let’s get some alcohol in your bloodstream and turn that frown upside down.” Hattie squeezes my arm, her eyes filled with understanding.
“Best idea I’ve heard all day,” I exclaim, shaking off the funk.
We catch a cab from work to Mixed Up, the trendy cocktail bar in the Arts District, where three more girls from work are already waiting. I order my go-to cocktail, Fru-Fru, a blend of fruity booze served in a hollowed-out pineapple, decorated with a little umbrella and a skewer with smoked barbecue pineapple squares.
“I’m gonna come out and say it ‘cause I know we’re all thinking it,” Giselle, one of the makeup girls, announces with a stern expression, her perfectly manicured navy-blue-with-rhinestones finger pointed at me, and for a second, I panic. Until she finishes the sentence. “Chica, that is the most basic bitch cocktail I haveeverseen.”
We all burst out laughing, the strain leaving my body, and I allow myself to just have fun. The next hour is probably the best I’ve felt in a while. Drinking, laughing, carefree, surrounded by a group of slightly crazy women with no buffer between their mouths and brains.
“How is that even possible?” I stare at Giselle, her dark brown eyes shimmering with adoration after having just finished describing a transcendental orgasm brought on by her fiancé and his sleight of hand, the punch to her ten-minute monologue on why you should date a nerd whose hobby is magic.
“What do you mean?” Rose from editorial frowns, her freckled nose that keeps making me think of Michael scrunching, and all eyes turn to me. “Ten years in a relationship, and you’ve never had an orgasm so good it was practically spiritual?”
“Ten years with that stiff corporate drone? No.” Giselle waves her hand around. “Now, tenminutesin a small loft with that ginger-flavored man candy? I refuse to believe that almost four days in, and you’ve managed to deny yourself all ofthat.”