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1
ABBY
“You can’t wearthat.”
I knew I’d made a mistake hanging out with these girls.
Sabine bends to rub a little more self-tanner on her already-tan calves, and as she does, her micro-mini dress, the one she dug out of the corner of her suitcase for tonight’s ‘clubbing,’ hitches up, exposing a full view of her ass and the thong panty doing little to cover her privates.
I guess that’s kind of the point.
Christ. Wait till they see my white cotton granny panties.
I’d been sitting in a tapas restaurant, one of about a gazillion in Madrid, when these two sisters happened by my table.
“Oh, hello!” the taller one calls, jumping and waving with enough gusto to attract the attention of the whole restaurant.
I wave back, of course, because I’m polite that way, although I’m not sure why they’re acting like they just spotted a long-lost friend or some such.
Encouraged by my wave, they weave their way between the extremely tight tables, turning heads and bumping diners with their hips and oversized purses, even causing one man to drop a piece of the octopus he’s eating right into his lap.
The girls make no notice.
Breathless, they reach my table. There’s one empty chair, so they plop down, sharing it. Two asses on a tiny bistro chair.
Ouch.
One of them reaches for my water and takes a sip. Really.
I pull my small dish ofpatatas bravascloser and hold my fork tighter.
“We know you!” the smaller one exclaims in heavily accented English. “We’re staying in the same Airbnb. We saw you at, um, how do you say?Petit dejeuner?” She looks at the other girl.
“Breakfast,” the other one says, rolling her eyes. She turns back to me. “We saw you atbreakfast.”
I nod politely. “I… I saw you too,” I say, trying to match their enthusiasm.
“I’m Sabine,” says the short one, “and this is my sister Vivianne. Or, you can call us Sabi and Vivi.” She extends a hand.
“SabeenandVeeveeawn,” I repeat to make sure I get them right, even though the nicknames are way easier. “You’re French?”
Sabine nods and shimmies her shoulders when I return her handshake.
“We know Americans like to shake hands rather thanfaire la bise. You know, kiss cheeks.” She looks at her sister, who nods in approval.
“I’m Abby,” I say, popping the lastpatatas bravaon my plate into my mouth.
“Abby,” Vivianne repeats likeAbbay. I like it, though. It sounds exotic. “Why are you alone?” she asks, scrunching up her face.
Wow. This one doesn’t beat around the bush.
Why am I alone?
I’m pretty much always alone. Hell, I spend so much time alone I don’t even know what it’s like to hang out with someone.
Unless that someone is my dad. I’m with him a lot. In short, he’s needy. And possessive.
But it doesn’t matter, this business of being alone. I don’t mind it. I’m not a cool girl. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I have spent the majority of my life with my nose in a book, naturally under the close watch of Dad. Some might sayobsessivewatch. But that’s understandable. I’m the only family he has since my mom bailed.
