AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I think that’s the door.” Kiersten lifts her head from the well-loved velvet fainting couch across from me, just enough to see over her margarita glass sitting on the coffee table between us.
I strain my ears to hear anything other than the Jimmy Buffett albumSongs You Know by Heartblasting through Aunt Livi’s ancient eighties stereo.
Sure enough, there’s a softtap, tap, tapcoming from theapartment door. I swing my feet to the floor and decide, since I’m already sitting up, to reach for the coffee table and empty my glass of the remaining sloppy green liquid. The world spins a little as I stand, but I quickly right myself, giddiness flooding my stomach as I run to greet my best friend.
“Daxon McGuire, nice of you to show up!” I shout as I fling the door open to find him leaning on the doorframe, his non-leaning hand curled into a fist, ready to knock again.
His hair is wet from the rain, which curls the ends and turns its normal chestnut color a darker brown. He holds out his arms, and I immediately fold into the little nook under his chin. His henley is damp as he pulls me to his chest. But as his arms wrap around me, I feel this sense of comfort. Of familiarity. I breathe in his scent, Irish Spring soap and the faintest hint of something spicy.
“You smell good,” I tell him.
He pulls away, and the loss of support makes me teeter a little. But his hands cup my shoulders, steadying me.
“You smell like you got the party started without me.” His face cracks into a wide smile, and it makes me note the stubble on his cheeks. Dax always has stubble. I accuse him, almost daily, of being afraid of the razor. However, tonight it looks a little longer. As if he’s let it go an extra day. My fingers find his cheek as if to confirm what my brain is thinking: that his face is not its usual scratchy texture.
“You a little drunk there, Gems?”
I become acutely aware that my face-touching is not normal for us—and possibly creepy. But when his palm covers mine and holds it against his cheek, I forget why this isn’t something we do.
“It was an accident. Kiersten keeps doing this thing where shefills my glass up before it’s empty. I lost count somewhere between two and a half and three and three-quarters. Jose Cuervo was not made for fractions. Then the ceiling started to get all spinny and…” I look down, only now fully realizing that I’m no longer wearing pants. “I got really hot.”
Dax’s eyes briefly sweep south before returning to my face. “Yeah, I was going to ask what happened there.”
My memories are feeling a little fuzzy, but I distinctly remember having a perfectly rational reason for shedding my jeans. “I think I took them off to make a point. Something about turning over a new leaf. You are looking at wild and unpredictable Gemma. She drinks tequila on a work night. She doesn’t need pants, or Stuart, for that matter.”
I’m aware that I’ve named he-who-shall-not-be-named yet again, but Aunt Livi’s margaritas seem to be doing the trick, and it doesn’t sting so much to say it this time.
“I like pantsless Gemma”—Dax’s gaze does another sweep—“but part of me wonders.” He reaches past me to the pocket of my trench hanging next to the door, pulls out my phone, and swipes it open. Scrolling through the apps, he stops on the alarm clock and clicks. “Ah, just as I suspected. My predictable Gemma is still in there, setting her three backup alarms for the morning.”
I grab the phone from his hand and attempt a scowl. But he’s right. My leaf is still the same side up as always. “I also texted my concierge and bribed him with apple fritters to be my morning wake-up call,” I tell him. “All of the Beauty Buyers have eight straight hours of quarterly sales and ops meetings tomorrow, and if I miss it, I’m gonna be totally fucked for Q3.”
“You two gonna make googly eyes at each other all night, or are you gonna help me with this pitcher?”
Kiersten’s voice both acts as a reminder that Dax and I are not alone and clears the brain fog enough to make me note that we’re standing unnaturally close.
I take a step back, putting a normal friendship amount of distance between us, and gesture for him to take a seat.
Kiersten has my glass refilled and Dax’s poured by the time we get to the couch. I take a sip of my half-melted drink, but Dax politely shakes his head. “I drove over here tonight.”
Kiersten shrugs and takes the glass, turning toward Aunt Livi. “Need a refill?”
My elderly aunt is asleep on her La-Z-Boy, her mouth half-open, looking a tad bit deceased as her ancient corgi, Dr. Snuggles, curls in her lap.
“Is she okay?” Dax asks.
“Oh, she’s fine,” answers Kiersten, “just a one-margarita kind of woman, that’s all. Hey, Aunt Livi—”
Kierst grabs the broken corner of a Cool Ranch Dorito from the bowl next to the margarita blender and chucks it at my aunt’s open mouth.
Even though Kiersten was cut from her beer league softball team, the chip finds its target perfectly. There’s a horrific thirty seconds where Aunt Livi breathes in and the chip sort of catches in her throat. Her eyes fly open as she makes this half-startled, half-scared face before Kiersten’s mother-of-three instincts kick into action.
She pulls Aunt Livi to her feet while slapping her hard on the back. It takes three hard smacks before the chip flies out of Aunt Livi’s mouth and across the living room to be forever lost in the orange shag carpeting.
“Good grief, what in the heck was that?” My aunt’s face looks like an overripe tomato.
Kiersten hands her the margarita with a face of pure innocence. “I think a paint chip fell from the ceiling and landed in your mouth while you were snoring.”
My aunt’s eyes skim the peeling white paint above her as she takes a long drink.
