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“Brooke, I had no idea you were interested in joining the League!”
I glance up from my delicately arranged cucumber sandwich and force a smile for Jamie Mathers. “Oh, I don’t think I am. My stepmom is a member, and I came to support her.”
Jamie exchanges a knowing glance with the other women in our small circle. All five of them were in my graduating class in high school, and all five of them are currently carrying heavy rocks on their left ring fingers and supporting varying degrees of pregnant bellies. Jamie Mathers is the furthest along, and I’m slightly worried she’ll go into labor on the spot. I wonder if it’d be rude to finish my cucumber sandwich before rendering aid.
“Well that’s so nice of you,” she says with a honey-dipped smile. “I’m glad you came. I haven’t seen you since everyone left for college. What are you up to now?”
My eyebrows hit my hairline. “Oh…well, I’m kind of between positions at the moment.”
“My mom mentioned you were working at the club with Ellie,” Jessica Lindsey adds with a conniving grin.
It feels like a TMZ-style gotcha moment, and I’m reminded why I never liked Jessica.
“It’s a temporary thing,” I shoot back quickly.
They hum, and I decide that two can play this game. “What about you, Jamie? Jessica? What are you guys up to these days?”
They laugh and rub their swollen bellies like a pair of sequined Teletubbies. It’s then that I decide I’ve officially stepped into the Twilight Zone. Compared to these women, I feel so young and ill-prepared for adulthood. There’s so much life I want to live before I start wearing Lily Pulitzer rompers and joining mommy Facebook groups.
“Prepping for motherhood is a full-time job in and of itself,” Jessica replies coolly.
As if it takes an advanced degree to pop out a placenta.
“Ah, I’m sure.”
“Not to mention, Harry and I just moved into a new house in Tarrytown. It’s going to take me months to decorate it. I just hope I can get everything done before Mary Grace arrives this fall.”
The girls chat amongst themselves excitedly, talking about wallpaper swatches and Restoration Hardware cribs. I’m debating between the small cups of strawberry shortcake and crème brûlée circulating the room when they direct the conversation back toward me.
“What about you, Brooke?”
I snap my attention back to the group. “What?”
“Where are you living these days?”
They’re expecting to hear the name of a ritzy Austin neighborhood, so when I explain my current living arrangement, they’re all more than a little confused.
“What exactly is a cowop?” Jessica asks. “Isn’t that where the weird art students live in West Campus?”
“Yeah…” Jamie adds, “I used to have to walk by one of those on my way to class. I swear everyone there was smoking—” She lowers her voice. “Marijuana. You could smell it a mile away.”
They all glance back at me, waiting for my reply. I smile extra wide. “Yes. It’s exactly like that, only north of campus.”
“Oh.” Jessica is stunned.
Jamie laughs nervously and tries to salvage the situation. “I don’t know how you do it. I need my privacy. I can hardly manage sharing 3,000 square feet with Benjamin, let alone a dozen other people.”
Benjamin (a.k.a. Ben Mackenzie) went to a neighboring high school, and regularly spent time at parties belching the letters of the alphabet. No one in their right mind ever referred to him as Benjamin. I want to call Jamie out for turning into a pretentious snob, but then I’d be just as bad as she is. So what if these women want to grow up and play house? Good for them. It’s just not for me. Right now I want to eat another cucumber sandwich, avoid eye contact with Martha for the rest of this luncheon, and make it home in time to take a nap before I have to cover Ellie’s shift at the club.
Ian is waiting for me by the curb outside when the luncheon wraps up. (Okay, that’s a lie. I’m leaving an hour before everyone else because I ate my fill of artisanal cheeses and was bored out of my mind.) I’m surprised to see him because he’s never been on time in his life—or at least not in the three months I’ve known him. Normally when he says, Be right there! he means, Be right there when I finish smoking or jerking off, or whatever the hell he does in that room of his.
“What’s up, sexy?” he asks after leaning over to open his passenger-side door for me. He scoops all the empty coffee cups and organic granola wrappers onto the floor so I can sit down. Romance.
“Hey, thanks for picking me up.”
I don’t have a car. When I moved back to Austin, I bought a fixed-gear bike off Craigslist. It’s old—on its dying leg—but it fits in well around the Austin bike lanes. It’s great for getting around to most places, but for times like this, when I’m strapped into a cocktail dress and high heels, I have to rely on other people for transportation, hence why I called Ian—barista and model, fellow co-oper, short-term fling.
