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She wriggles her feet out of her tennis shoes, rubbing one heel like she’s already developed a blister. “They’re gorgeous. Hank—that’s this one guy—he’s six two and he’s on the varsity tennis team at Duke. I swear, Carrie, we should both transfer to Duke. They have the hottest guys.”
I smile. “We have lots of hot guys in New York, too—”
“Not like these guys.” She sighs dramatically. “Hank would be perfect, except for one thing.”
“He has a girlfriend?”
“No.” She gives me a pointed look. “I would never date someone who had a girlfriend. Not after Lali.”
“Lali.” I shrug. Each mention of the past causes my intestines to lurch. Next thing I know, we’ll be talking about Sebastian. And I really don’t want to. Since I arrived in New York, I’ve barely thought about Lali or Sebastian or what went on last spring. It feels like all that stuff happened to someone else, not me. “So Hank,” I say, attempting to remain in the present.
“He’s . . .” She shakes her head, picks up her sneaker, and puts it down. “He’s not . . . good in bed. Have you ever had that?”
“I’ve certainly heard about it.”
“You still haven’t—”
I try to brush this away as well. “What does that mean, exactly? ‘Bad in bed’?”
“He doesn’t really do anything. Just sticks it in. And then it’s over in like three seconds.”
“Isn’t it always like that?” I ask, remembering what Miranda’s told me.
“No. Peter was really good in bed.”
“He was?” I still can’t believe that nerdly old Peter was such a big stud.
“Didn’t you know? That was one of the reasons I was so angry when we broke up.”
“What are you going to do, then?” I ask, twisting my hair into a bun. “About Hank?”
She gives me a secret smile. “I’m not married. I’m not even engaged. So—”
“You’re sleeping with another guy?”
She nods.
“You’re sleeping with two guys. At the same time?” Now I’m aghast.
She gives me a look.
“Well, I’m sure you don’t sleep with both of them at once, but—” I waver.
“It’s the eighties. Things have changed. Besides, I’m using birth control.”
“You could get a disease.”
“Well, I haven’t.” She glares at me and I drop it. Maggie’s always been stubborn. She does what she wants when she wants, and there’s no talking her out of it. I absentmindedly rub my arm. “Who’s this other guy?”
“Tom. He works at a gas station.”
I look at her in consternation.
“What?” she demands. “What is wrong with a guy who works at a gas station?”
“It’s such a cliché.”
“First of all, he’s an incredible windsurfer. And secondly, he’s trying to make something of his life. His father has a fishing boat. He could be a fisherman, but he doesn’t want to end up like his father. He’s going to community college.”
