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Fifty-Four
BJ
Jordan’s friends from Australia are in town and she’s having drinks with them. She didn’t ask me to come, thought it was a bit strange because she usually wants me to come everywhere with her, likes the photos and the fuss, I think. But not today.
I was right the other day, about the DJ. She didn’t tell me. Saw a photo. They were at dinner. Nothing sus, I don’t think. Someone took a video of them out at Manteca and sent it to Loose Lips. They posted it on their TikTok, I got tagged in it about a hundred times. She was on the couch next to me when I opened it. She watched me watch it. I looked over at her and she stared back at me. Neither of us said anything. I put my phone away.
She got into bed last night and rolled over to face me and gave me a smile. Put my phone away — I’d just finished texting Parks — flashed her a smile.
“We have a weird relationship, hey?” she said with a funny look on her face.
I laughed. “What do you mean?”
“Just funny.” She shrugged. “I don’t mind it.”
I fight off a smile. “I don’t mind it either.”
Thought of asking her about the DJ but decided against it. Didn’t feel like my business. I know that’s weird, she’s technically my girlfriend, but it didn’t. Doesn’t still. Makes me wonder about all Magnolia’s fake boyfriends, but did they know upfront or did they realise it over time? That I’d always be there and they just had a specific function which was exclusively to fuck me off. Me and Jordan kind of feel like friends who live together and have sex sometimes. Pretty solid arrangement if it was intentional, like we’ve come to some sort of tacit agreement, feels a bit like it. Even if we haven’t, I don’t want to rock the boat.
I walk into me and Jo’s and find the living room full.
Jo, Taura, Henry, some girl I don’t know — that’s interesting — Christian, Parks. No Julian — also interesting.
“Ey!” Jonah grins.
I nod hello to everyone, reach out to shake the hand of the girl I don’t know.
“This is Georgia,” Henry tells me. “We go to uni together.”
I nod at her with a smile.
She’s outlandishly beautiful. Like Stephanie Seymour on the cover of Playboy in the ‘90s. I glance at Taura — super pissed. Parks catches my eye and I temper my smile with her happy surprise that she texted me last night. For no reason. She used to all the time. Missed it. She stands up — big puffer coat from Gucci and a tiny blue dress under it — she walks into the kitchen.
I wait a few seconds then follow her.
She’s standing there waiting for me, leaning back against the bench waiting for me.
“Say sorry to me,” she tells me as soon as I walk in.
I go stand needlessly close to her.
My face tugs, amused. “For what?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I just feel cross at you and feel like you should say sorry to me.”
“Actually cross?” I look her up and down for clues. “Or you want attention cross?”
Her face pinches. “The second one.”
I try not to laugh. “Well, now I feel like you should say sorry to me.”
“Then you would be wrong,” she tells me, nose in the air. What I wouldn’t give to kiss that nose. Anything, literally anything except wave the white flag first.
“Do we need 10 seconds?”
Her perfect eyes pinch again. “Fifteen.”
Even better.
