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How it feels like I’ve been waiting ever since for someone to kiss me like that again.
A horn honks beside me and I cut back up to the sidewalk, swing my leg over the seat and coast a while before hopping down. I don’t even know where I’m going, except that it’s not home. If there’s one thing I can’t handle after this it’s my brothers tearing the walls of our apartment down around me.
The evening commuters bustle by, fallen leaves in rose and gold trailing behind their feet.
I look east toward the lakefront. I could ride the paths, watch the waves rush the shore. I look west toward the rink. I could unwind watching the kids practice or maybe catch a game, depending. But even at the youth level, hockey’s too close to the man I’m trying to escape.
What I really want right now is a friend.
Nat’s out of the question for all the obvious reasons. Cammy’s making slime with her little guy tonight. Helene is always a great listener, but she’s really more Nat’s friend and I wouldn’t want to make things awkward for her. And while I’ve got a slew of cousins and guy friends always up for a beer… I kind of feel like I need someone closer to the situation.
I climb back on my bike and take off.
When Margo opens her door, she’s wearing one of those gunky green clay masks you let dry on your skin, a pair of sparkly rhinestone earrings that dangle all the way to her shoulders, PJs with unicorns on them and Styrofoam separators between a set of half-painted toes.
I’m not even sure she checked to see who it was in the hall before opening up like this, but she lets out a squeal when she sees me.
Maybe it’s weird that I’m here. I’ve known Margo for less than a year and only through Natalie who knows her through her brother’s buddy’s wife. But somehow, I’ve become a part of that group of girls. And of all of them, Margo has always struck me as the straightest shooter. The most like me when it comes to saying what’s on her mind, and the least like me when it comes to these girly rituals and what is normally her gorgeous sense of style.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt the self-care marathon, but I was sort of in the neighborhood and—”
“Ooh, I love the random stop over. Nobody just shows up anymore,” she says, waving me into her apartment. “Go sit. I’m in the living room, but if there isn’t a free spot, move whatever you need to.”
Margo is indeed occupying her living room… which at its bones looks like a light and airy space with clean lines and the occasional splash of bright color. Pale gray walls, white couches and chairs, each with throw pillows in a pretty teal.
Her coffee table is covered in what looks like a full recycling bin-worth of paper, magnifying mirrors and a selection of nail polish. I move a neat tray of serums and scrubs I wouldn’t begin to know what to do with onto the floor by the foot spa and sit in her overstuffed chair with the chunky violet throw.
The fridge closes in the kitchen and a minute later Margo is back with a can in one hand and one of those not-messing-around-sized wine glasses in the other.
I raise a brow as she pops the top and proceeds to pour.
“I see you judging me over there,” she sings, looking delighted as she hands me the glass and then lifts hers to clink. “But this canned stuff is fantastic. Fresh fizz every time! It’s like the perfect single serving.”
I know from experience that telling Margo I’m more of a beer girl is pointless. She’s a drink pusher and honestly, whatever she puts in front of me is always pretty tasty, so I click glasses with her and take a sip that tickles my nose.
One perfect ebony brow arches at me expectantly. “Nice, right?”
It really is.
“Okay, so what’s got you popping by all spur of the moment? I know my company kicks ass in general, but you’ve got a bit of a beat-up look about you. What gives? Boy trouble? Girl trouble? Bike trouble? Family trouble? Bank trouble? Dairy—”
“Stop,” I cough out, because I seriously think she could keep going all day and never get bored. “It’s Quinn O’Brian trouble.”
She takes an impressive “sip” and leans in. “Okay, lay it on me.”
I tell her about Mexico. About the chance meeting at the ice-cream stand and the shock of that instant connection. About the hours of laughter and conversation, and how from almost the first minute, Quinn was all in. No pretense of cool, no guarding his cards. He told me he wanted me, but not for some single night.
I tell her about his plans to come up and see me at school and how he wanted me to come to Minnesota in the summer. And I tell her about the way the air seemed to charge between us and how he swore he never felt anything like it with anyone else before.
“What haunts me are the memories. What drives me crazy is that, even after everything, I still can’t think about his kiss without getting butterflies. And what’s worse, other guys don’t even stand a chance in comparison. I’ve let some really good guys kiss me.”
“And more than kiss you too, right?” she butts in, a panicky look in her eyes. “Please, tell me you didn’t close up shop just because—”
“Margo. No. I’ve had sex. But it’s hard to get caught up in the moment when all you’re thinking is how much better some jerk was than the decent guy you’re with now. I mean, how annoying is that?”
“So annoying,” she agrees solemnly. Tapping a blunt nail to her lips, she stares at me. “He can’t actually be that good.”
Maybe she wasn’t listening. I open my mouth, but she cuts me off.
