Page 129 of One Wild Wish

I made the sign of the cross over my chest. “Let’s get in that moving coffin and get my torture over with.”

When the elevator doors opened on the thirty-eighth floor, sweat had gathered in my cleavage. My skin was likely more gray than blush. My lungs had shrunk to pea-sized and swallowing was an effort. Dizzy, I stepped into the bar. The massive windows overlooking San Francisco swayed, but the room was stunning. A spray of tiny lights exploded from the ceiling, mimicking the galaxy of city lights expanding across the night sky. The elevator sucked, but the view and ambiance were worth it.

Gwen slapped my back. “See? Piece of cake.”

Said the girl who jumped off cliffs. “There should be a margarita in my hand.”

Two and a half margaritas later, my Anton quandary and Owen Restlessness still lingered, but I maintained my game face. We chatted with Rachel about school and Jimmy and Napa Valley. Gwen regaled us with tales of rock climbing and bungee jumping that had me green again. We also tutted over her, making sure she was managing her mother’s illness all right.

We laughed and commiserated at our high-top table. I managed to fly under the radar until Gwen said, “How did everything work out with your latest gay crush? You two besties yet?”

That had Rachel perking up. “Please don’t tell me I missed another one.”

I said, “Nope,” and Gwen crowed, “Yep!”

Traitor.

Rachel sighed into her Chardonnay. “Honestly, the only crappy thing about living in Napa is missing all the little stuff. I need details.”

They mirrored each other, chins in hands, waiting on me. They were about to get more than they bargained for. “That story is a doozy, but I need another drink before I open the vault.” I drained margarita number three.

Rachel frowned at her almost-empty glass. “I’m not sure I should. Reckless Rachel hasn’t been out for a while. I’m like the Hulk. Days Without Incident: Two Hundred and Twenty-five.”

Except Reckless Rachel was a blast. Give my sweet friend four glasses of wine, and her inhibitions often vanished. Case in point: the Dildo Incident. If it weren’t for Reckless Rachel dragging us into a sex shop, making a fool of herself, then running through the street with a dildo while screaming, “I have a penis!” I wouldn’t have found Blue Bunny.

I fluttered my Lancôme lashes at her. “I rode the elevator. Drink up, girly.”

Three men in slacks and button-downs, who had been circling us like sharks, finally moved in for the kill. The tallest led the way. “How about we treat you ladies to that round?”

I didn’t blame them for hitting on us. I could strut through a Sex and the City rerun in my fluffy tulle skirt and pink strapless top as Carrie’s stunt double. Rachel’s red dress flaunted her tanned skin and freckles. Gwen was her usual rumpled-yet-styled self in a loose off-the-shoulder top and skin-tight black pants. Guys assumed we got dolled up to impress them. So adorably naïve. They’d never understand that women often dressed for women. I had to look my best for my girls.

Clueless, these men lingered. All three were fit and handsome. Business types with fancy watches, Crest Whitestrip teeth, and superhero jaws. Before Owen, I’d have flipped my hair and angled my cleavage their way. Before Owen, I’d have accepted their flirtatious offer. After Owen, I said, “Thanks but no thanks.”

Rachel was taken, Gwen was on an asshole break, as she called it, and I was…

Big, fat question mark.

Defeated, the men went to search for other fish in this glittery sea, but Gwen leveled raised eyebrows at me. “Since when do you turn down drinks?”

“I don’t know. Nothing. Whatever.” God, I was pathetic.

Rachel nudged Gwen. “She’s lying to us.”

Gwen lifted her chin, studying me. “I know.”

“Does it have to do with that gay guy?” Rachel asked her.

“Maybe. She was weird on the phone about it.”

“You two suck,” I said, reminding them I was at the table. But we often pulled this stunt, omitting one person from the conversation to make them squirm. It totally worked. “Yes, it’s about that guy. There’s a story. Get me my drink first.”

Gwen saluted me and scurried over to the bar. Rachel grooved on her seat to the smooth R&B tunes. A Rachel groove looked like a giraffe on stilts trying to ice skate. It should have been enough to entertain me while I awaited my liquid courage, but thoughts of bars and flirting and buying drinks had me picking my newly polished nails.

Because Owen, Owen, Owen .

As maniacal as I’d been with him at our park yesterday, pawing at him like it was my job, insecurity had swept over me since. My history with Brandon kept rearing its ugly head, reminding me how painful relationships could be until my anxiety had stretched its wings, flapping fitfully through my belly.

Owen was in D.C., and his life there was a blank crossword with no clues. There could be an ex-girlfriend. He could be out with friends in his own ocean, circling schools of fish, buying drinks.