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I shake my head. “He wasn’t an ugly duckling. He was always cute, just in a different way.”
“Okay, if you say so,” Harlow says, agreeing way more easily than she usually would. Probably because I’m a hot, snotty mess and she wants the drama to be over as soon as possible. Harlow is like me—she prefers moderate feelings in moderation voiced in a calm tone. “But trust me, it’s a thing. I went through it my freshman year of college. Being hot was a shiny new toy that boosted my formerly fugly, pimple-covered self-esteem. I couldn’t stop playing with it, even when I met a nice guy who was perfect boyfriend material. I couldn’t, wouldn’t settle down. It was like I was afraid I’d lose my cuteness and forget how to flirt if I stopped kissing strangers at parties. Chances are, it’s the same with Sam. It’s not that you’re not the best. It’s not aboutyouat all. It’s about him being caught between his new outsides and his insecure insides.”
I accept the tissue Evie presses into my hand, mopping at my face as I will myself to pull it together enough to get the story out. The sooner I spill, the sooner this will be over, and I can go back to crying on the floor by the beautiful new washer-dryer the liar had installed in my apartment as a surprise and now permanent reminder of my tragic naivete. (Because I’m not sending it back. I will suffer the pain of a broken heart in the name of being able to do my laundry while watching Drag Race reruns.)
“Erica is his ex-girlfriend,” I explain, sniffing and swiping until the tissue is drenched and then reaching for another from the box Evie has helpfully positioned by my left hand. “They met while she was studying in London and then had a long-distance relationship. I ran into her at the cat fostering place.”
“Wow, that’s random,” Evie says.
“No, it’s Sister Fate, having your back,” Harlow says. “The universe wanted to be sure you knew Sam once dated a mean, evil troll person before you banged him. I’m assuming she was an evil troll person?”
I shake my head again. “No, she was beautiful. Like a model. And she seemed n-nice.”
“But they’re broken up?” Evie asks.
I nod.
“And have been for a while?” Harlow clarifies.
I nod again, my jaw tightening as I fight another wave of sobs.
“Okay, so…” Evie exchanges a loaded look with Harlow before asking in a cautious voice, “So, what’s the problem, honey? What did he lie about?”
“About being a virgin,” I force out. “Erica wasn’t ‘I like dating virgins’ material. She was young Nicole Kidman without the Australian accent. Except actually sexy.”
“I think Nicole Kidman’s sexy,” Evie says.
“No, she’s beautiful and talented and came back from that bad plastic surgery from the early aughts like a fierce and fearless queen,” Harlow says, “but she’s not sexy. She has no vibe.”
“Really?” Evie cocks her head. “You don’t think?”
Harlow doubles down. “No, I don’t.”
“Maybe she’s just private,” Evie says. “I don’t have a sex vibe in real life, but I do when I’m with Ian.”
“You’re shy about showing that side of yourself in public,” Harlow says. “She’s an actress. It’s her job to show all her sides to the camera, and I have never seen a side I personally feel is sexy. Maybe a little inPractical Magic, but that’s it.”
Evie sighs. “Oh, I love that movie. I want to live in a witch house with you guys and cast spells and drink margaritas at midnight and let our grandkids run wild in the woods. Can we do that when we’re old and tired of boys?”
“I’m tired of boys already,” Harlow huffs. “Your brother has been showing his Satan side again lately, Evie.”
“Because he won’t tell you where he’s taking you on vacation?” Evie asks.
Harlow’s nose scrunches. “Yes. All he’ll say is that I should pack a swimsuit and sandals and it’s driving me insane. I hate surprises, and he knows it.”
“Except surprise jewelry,” Evie says with a wry arch of her brow.
“Well, obviously. He has amazing taste in jewelry.” Harlow smiles a small, secret, “I’m so in love with my man” smile before pulling in a deeper breath as she turns back to me. “But this isn’t about us or Nicole Kidman. It’s about you, Jess. I’m sorry. I tangent when I’m upset and don’t know what to say to make things better.”
“I know. It’s okay,” I say. “I like not talking about me. It keeps my mind off the fact that Sam was having hot, steamy sex with a supermodel and God knows who else and lied to me about it.”
“Maybe not,” Evie, ever the optimist, pipes up. “You can’t know what went on behind closed doors. She might have wanted to wait for marriage or liked to take things slow. Or maybehewanted to wait. For you!”
I wince, the words causing me physical pain. Before today, I had no idea that a broken heart could make your spine ache and your internal organs feel bruised. But it can, and it does. I suddenly feel approximately eighty thousand years old and too tired to cry anymore.
Setting the ice cream on the table, I take a gulp of the water Evie placed by the tissues and let it all out. I tell Harlow and Evie about the digging I did into Sam’s connection to Paradisus, his dating history, and everything in between, as well as the confrontation at our local dive that confirmed all my well-researched suspicions.
By the time I’m done, Evie’s jaw is on the floor and Harlow’s eyes are as big around as the little ice cream bowls she bought last month. The ones that are far too small for ice cream but very large for eyes.
