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Her head snaps up from her phone and looks at me. “Really? I can invite you.”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Atta girl! Okay, what’s your Facebook name.”
“Oh…” My face falls as I remember the social media disappearing act I’d done. “I deleted it.”
“What?” She cocks her head to the side. “Why? And more importantly, how do you know when it’s people’s birthdays? I mean Instagram only goes so far. You do have Instagram, right?”
I nod. I wasn’t sure how to tell this blonde bombshell that had probably never had her heart broken before that I deleted it so I didn’t have to see my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend…excuse me, fiancée. He was the man I thought I was going to marry, the man that…No, Skyler.
I let out a breath. “A stupid boy.”
“Ah, say no more. Okay, I think you can do it through your email. What is it?”
“Bella dot Mitchell at Gmail,” I tell her and she looks at me curiously.
“Bella?”
“It’s what my mom calls me. I’m Italian.”
“Hot. Definitely put that in your profile. The guys were all salivating over you when you walked in by the way. I have six messages from guys here asking for your number and or ‘deal.’ Are you DTF?” she asks, and I wonder when we got to this level where she’s comfortable enough to ask whether I’m down to fuck. I’m not a prude, but come on. I’d barely spoken two words to any of these guys that were allegedly asking.
“Ummm.” I clear my throat. “Not…like right this second?” I wince.
“Oh, time of the month?” She blanches.
My face turns slightly pink, as if surfing the crimson wave was the only reason I may not want to have sex with a guy I just met. “No, I just…”
“Okay, so no, totally cool. The playing hard to get route. I love it. Okay, I sent you the link. Let’s set up your profile before we leave, so you can get a feel for it while we’re out. It’s a Saturday night so it’s a perfect time.”
I had a feeling Peyton wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I had a lot of vodka infused Jell-O in my stomach, coupled with two very strong vodka drinks that told me that this was probably a great idea. So, I let Peyton set up my profile, pulling pictures from my Instagram: one of me with my dog and a glass of wine, one of me in New York with Stella being embarrassing tourists on a ferry in front of the Statue of Liberty, one of me in a bathing suit, and finally one of me throwing a penny into the Trevi Fountain, a picture taken by…
“Oh, I bumped my age up a few years by the way. Do you want to? Guys our age are annoying.”
I was no stranger to lying about my age. I had a fake ID, a really good one that put me at twenty-two. “Ummm. Well, what age did you put?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Okay…sure, why not?”
“Okay, Sky—”
“Bella,” I tell her. “Can you make my name Bella?”
“Skyler is a great name. You sure you don’t want to use that?”
“It’s also pretty uncommon. What if some psycho tracks me down?”
“Fine, Bella. What do you want in your profile? Def write that you’re Italian. Can you speak it fluently?”
“I knew Italian before I knew English. Yeah.” I chuckle thinking about how my father spoke only English while my mother spoke to me in Italian growing up.
“Okay how about this: New to the area by way of Italy. Name isn’t actually Bella.” She looks up from my phone. “Give me a fun fact.”
“Ummm. I love iced coffee?”
“What girl doesn’t? Next.”
