She winced. She was being cruel and she hated it. But at least if she was cruel about someone else, she wouldn’t have to face the fact her heart was cracking wide open in her goddamn chest.
She swallowed again. Finn’s type was not Molly. Tears pricked her eyes, but she gulped down her beer to fight the urge to cry. Belching in front of forty people and-or choking to death chugging a bottle of beer was preferable to crying.
While Molly wasn’t short, she wasn’t tall, either. Her hair was anything but blonde, bottle or any other kind – hers was long, wavy – aka fuzzy AF, and a brown that didn’t know if it was brown or red. She trailed her eyes from the red painted toenails of one of the girls, all the way up her never ending legs to her red bikini.
Molly did not have hot legs like that, and her arms were too scrawny. Her ass was too flat, she had average tits, and her green eyes always just seemed a liiiiittle too close together.
She slid a fingernail under her already chipped eggplant colored polish, shearing the paint from her nail. Her skin was too pale, her lips were too thin, her eyebrows too thick, and if she didn’t wax every few weeks, she looked like Cousin-fucking-Itt.
Sure, Will would never stand for Molly dating his best friend, but she’d always thought… she’d always thought what? That a guy with a fondness for beautiful, camera ready blondes would ever look twice at her?
She cringed. Confidence oozed around the garden, tangling in the lapping flames of the fire pit and wafting into the atmosphere on tufts of smoke. Of course, skimpy clothes were what men wanted, but why did women feel a need to give it to them? Was it a power thing? Did they feel every bit as gorgeous as they looked? Or were they trembling inside like newborn kittens, just trying to fit in?
The only boyfriend Molly had ever had, had broken her heart in two. He’d cheated on her with someone she knew from school – earning himself a beat down from her brother. She almost laughed at the memory. How Will had managed to kick anyone’s ass when he couldn’t have beaten his way out of a wet paper bag was anyone’s guess. But he’d done it. For her.
The clip-clopping of heels on the tiled floor drew her attention to another bikini in astronomically high heels, hurrying toward Finn, brandishing a guitar. “Play for us, Finny. Pleeeeeeease?”
Finny? That was a keeper. Molly tucked it away in her memory banks to use at an appropriately embarrassing moment in the future.
Wide, doe-eyes pleaded with Finn, and even in the dim light, Molly could tell his cheeks were pinking. If she batted those eyes at him much more, her falsies would fly away.
Fuck, Molly, you’re being an asshole. Get it together and stop being a dick. You like ogling them as much as the guys do.
Finn held up his hands, but didn’t claim his guitar. He shook his head and spoke quietly to the girl who – if she leaned over much more – would be on full frontal display to Finn.
Molly expected to find a bulge in his swim shorts, but she couldn’t make one out. Either he had a tiny dick, was too cold to get hard, or he wasn’t interested. She mulled on the options while other girls joined in the whiny pleading, and Finn finally relented.
In the far corner of the yard, two curvier women wearing booty shorts and tied up t-shirts performed a dance routine. Two of the hockey players had pulled out dining room chairs, and music played softly from one of their phones. The women gyrated to the beat as though no one was watching. They didn’t touch the guys they were dancing for, but Molly’s mouth dried up at just how beautiful they were.
“Wow.” Her whisper escaped on a gasp. How did they move like that? And better yet, where could she learn? She wanted to love her body the way those women seemed to love theirs. Maybe if she was confident and could move like they did, it wouldn’t matter how she looked. It wouldn’t matter that she was broken, rejected by the only boy she’d ever been with, or in love with someone she could never have, because she’d love herself, damnit. And maybe that would be enough.
***
(Present Day)
A soft tap on the door pulled her from light sleep. “Molly? You home?”
Molly grunted. “S’up?”
“You had a couple of visitors while you were out.”
“Oh?” Playing dumb never worked with her astute best friend. From the fourteen unread texts and a bunch of missed calls from the Murphy brothers, Cathal and Ciaron, and their best friend Jayden, not only did she know exactly who’d come to call, she knew why, too.
“Yeah.” Cleo somehow made the short answer into a dozen syllables. “Mol… What’s going on with you?”
Molly inched the duvet over her head. “Sweet summer prude. Haven’t you heard? Cum guzzling is the new fountain of youth.” She cringed and peeked over the edge of the blanket. She was being a dick, but couldn’t seem to stop herself.
Cleo wasn’t going to let her get away with deflecting from the fact she banged a dude and his best friend – not at the same time – with crass humor.
Cleo wrinkled her nose. “Gross. And be shitty all you want, Molzilla. I’m not letting you avoid this discussion. Are you really dating a guy and his best friend?”
Molly groaned. She was kind of doing that, yes. “I’m sorry for being snappy.”
Cleo nodded but didn’t speak.
“Ugh. Fine. It’s not serious with either of them, and they’re both seeing other people, too. It’s not technically cheating.” The argument sounded weak even to herself.
“Do said guy and said best friend know you’re dating the other one?”
