Page 69 of Licks

“The screwing and leaving. I’m the screwer and leaver.”

“Ex-squeeze me?” She leaned toward me, and I leaned away.

I bounced my foot restlessly. No matter how much I swallowed, my strawberry banana smoothie felt stuck in my throat. “I can’t do it. I have my life here, my adoption work, and he has his music and groupies, and he’s in new cities every week.” And he has groupies. “I don’t fit in that life. Not the way I’d want to. I love my job and you guys. I don’t want to pick up and leave. Plus, my scuba and surf stuff are here, my mountain bike and rock climbing gear. I can’t travel with it.”

“Your surfboard and scuba gear? These are your priorities?” Now it sounded like she wanted to shave my eyebrows.

I waved a flustered hand. “It’s expensive.”

“You can store it.”

“What would I use in Europe?”

“You’d rent equipment.”

“It’s not the same as having my stuff.” My voice shrunk with each feeble excuse. I didn’t even believe me.

“Gwen,” Rachel cut in, no nonsense in her tone, “since you’re the one who usually forces us to face hard truths, we’re at a disadvantage. I can’t read between the lines as well as you, but you’re being a tad irrational. What’s going on? The truth this time.”

This was why I’d met the girls this morning. I could have canceled, gone for a run instead, but I’d wanted their advice, which meant quitting my vague routine. I stilled my bouncing leg and met their concerned gazes. “I’m scared.”

Rachel moved aside her half-finished smoothie, turning all her focus on me. “Scared he’ll cheat on you?”

I pictured him at last night’s club, the women vying for his attention. He’d spent that time looking for me, trying to extricate himself politely. He wasn’t the issue here. “No. Not really. I’m worried I can’t handle it. That I’ll freak myself out until I’m convinced he will do something to ruin us, when I’m pretty sure he won’t, and then I’ll act like those stalkerish women in the reality shows we heckle. I can’t be those women. Those women are the worst.

“And look at our history—we’ve both admitted we loved each other as teens, and all we did was screw it up. Me more than him, obviously, but our timing was always off. This feels the same. Like we know we’d be amazing together, but our lives simply don’t line up. Maybe we aren’t meant to be.”

“Does he need a penis pump, too?” Ainsley asked, straight-faced. “Is that the problem?”

I kicked her lightly under the table, but my favorite fashionista had me smiling. “There are no penis concerns.” I’d happily bronze his gorgeous cock, place it on a mantel. Come to think of it, I could bronze it, add some wiring and batteries…

I fanned my face, but I needed to stay on target and explain to the girls how rough I’d been the last time August had disappeared from my life.

“Imagine being so sad you could only drink boxed wine,” I told Rachel, who mimed a puke-a-thon. “Or wearing white after Labor Day and tossing your Coach purse collection because you’re having an epic pity party.” Ainsley clutched her chest, horrified. “That’s how I was after losing August, but more of the emo drown myself in screamer music and ramen noodles depressed. I never went out, barely attended my classes. I hit rock bottom, and we’d only ever kissed one time. We’ve been together less than twenty-four hours now, and I can barely go two minutes without aching for him. I won’t survive losing him this time. It’s easier to end things when he leaves.”

My friends stared at me. The vinyl seat under my bare thighs got sweaty.

“I’ll take it from here,” Rachel told Ainsley.

She wore a similar black tank top to mine, but hers said Save Water Drink Wine. I focused on the writing, which meant I was staring at her boobs. Easier than facing her impending confrontation.

“Who did you lean on when you were nineteen?” Rachel asked, all business, like we were on an episode of Law & Order. “After the incident we aren’t supposed to mention.”

“No one.” Finch and I had quit our friendship cold turkey. Clean Your Damn Area Claire had been nothing more than a roommate. I’d had no caring family to call.

“Did you like school?” She crossed her arms, covering the writing on her boobs.

I forced my attention to her stern face. “I hated school.” Which she already knew.

“Were you part of CrossFit?”

“No.”

“Had you started surfing or rock climbing or jumping out of planes?”

I narrowed my eyes at her, gradually following her breadcrumb trail. “No.”

“And now, nine years later, do you love your job and adore your amazing best friends, and have a crew of CrossFit buddies who jump on boxes? And when that isn’t enough, do you do insane activities like toss yourself out of airplanes?”