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Now I’m lying in a puddle of sweat, my mouth dry and eyes scratchy, and when I reach for my phone to check the time, my back screams, probably from arching with my ass in the air for so long. The pillow next to mine smells of Enzo, slightly spicy, maybe from his deodorant or something, and the simple smell of basic soap.
What the hell. It was totally worth it, back pain, blinding light, and all.
Enzo is nowhere to be seen, probably either gone to work or maybe just done with me now that we played hide the sausage.
I try a couple stretches I learned in yoga to loosen my lower back, checking my phone at the same time because I’m efficient that way, and find no fewer than a dozen text messages from Arthur.
Cripes, did someone die?
As I scroll through them, another one comes in.
Dammit girl, fucking wake up and call me!
Each text is a variation on the same. I don’t have to be a brain surgeon to know he’s dying for some scoop on last night.
Just woke up. Can’t talk.
No way, bitch. I want the dirt NOW.
Later
Fine. You’re selfish. I’m at work. Call me here.
There’s nothing else of interest on my phone, including no declaration of love from Enzo, nor a friendly little text saying good morning, so I crawl out of bed, suck down a couple Aleve pills, and get in a very hot shower.
Holy shit. I fucked Enzo.
And Arthur knows I did, which means everyone else in the world will know by the end of the day.
I could ask him to keep his mouth shut but that would be as useless as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. The only thing left to do at this point is damage control. Which I actually have no idea how to do.
So I do nothing.
Oh, I’m such an idiot.
I mean, sure, it was great to get some nook-nook, and doing it with a hunk like Enzo made it about a thousand times hotter.
But really, Livvy?
What am I doing messing around with guys from the business next door? When things go south—and they will—I’ll have to see them on the regular.
Well, assuming I still have a business next door to them.
Why couldn’t I just hook up with some guy from the West Side, whose path I would never cross again? There’s something like one-and-a-half million people in Manhattan. Divided in half, that gives me over seven hundred thousand men to choose from.
And I end up with the guys from next door. Maybe I should just stick with the creeps my sister introduces me to. That way, if I fuck them, I can pretty easily avoid them afterward, should I need to.
I arrive at the shop, where it’s reeking of weed, and I am so not in the mood.
I plop my stuff on the counter and put my hands on my hips. “Jewel, did you get high inside the store again? Dammit, I thought you were going to stick with the edibles.”
She waves away my concerns, which of course only pisses me off more.
“First of all, you know cannabis is for my anxiety, and it’s legal here now, so you can’t deny me.”
I squeeze my eyes tight. “I’m not denying you anything, Jewel—”
“But listen, Livvy, Mrs. Johnson came in to shop and her chubby dog took a dump. The pot smell covers it up beautifully.” She beams, waiting for me to praise her for her brilliant thinking.
