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“I didn’t mention which of my orifices Toto penetrated,” Jolene counters. “Isn’t that the definition of being discrete?”
They start to argue, and the avalanche of TMI continues, but I’m still too stunned to say anything… that is, until I blurt, “If you two break up, I’m staying friends with both of you and not choosing sides. Ever. I don’t care who does what and to whom. Got it?”
“Fair,” they say in unison.
“But I don’t think we will break up,” Dorothy adds shyly. “Even if we do occasionally fight.”
Occasionally?
To my shock, Jolene grabs Dorothy’s hand and squeezes it tenderly. “I don’t think we’ll break up either. But even if we do, we’ll get back together—the makeup sex will be that good.”
That’s it. Mind officially blown. If this were the first of April, I’d suspect this to be a prank, but I can tell that it’s not—the tender glance they just shared can’t be faked. At least these two are not that good at acting.
“I’m happy for you guys,” I say when I realize Jolene is looking at me expectantly, and Dorothy with a tinge of worry. “I really, truly am.”
“Thank you,” Dorothy says.
“Yeah,” Jolene says. “And I’m sure you and Evan will?—”
The salon door opens with a loud chime, and I gape as Evan walks in, looking as dashing as ever.
Wait. Am I hallucinating him because Jolene just said his name? Or is it some weird doppelganger?
Nope.
This is him.
There’s no mistaking those Husky eyes and broad shoulders.
Butterflies start an orgy in my belly.
“That’s him,” I whisper to my friends, still stunned.
They turn in unison, and Jolene whistles, then whispers, “Is he the devil? I spoke his name, and there he is.”
“Neveah!” Dorothy yells. “Can you take over here?”
I shake my head but keep my eyes on Evan, who is scanning the place, clearly seeking me out. “Neveah will make Mr. Goobers look like a poodle.”
“So what?” Dorothy says. “Anything will be an improvement over his current Cousin Itt cosplay.”
“I bet Mr. Goobers will look amazeballs with a poodle ‘do,” Jolene says. “All the bitches will be at his feet.”
It’s possible Jolene says more, but Evan spots me in that moment and strides my way, so I dazedly step toward him, leaving the dog and my friends behind.
What I really want is to jump on Evan and climb him like a tree, but I still don’t know where he and I stand. Plus my boss is at the register and my friends are behind me—not to mention my son is in the corner. So I have to come up with something tamer, like a weak, “Hi.”
“Hi,” Evan replies softly when he’s a few feet from me. “I?—”
“Mr. Wilcox?” Reagan exclaims.
My feet are suddenly glued to the floor, my eyes bulging.
When Evan spots my son, he halts in his tracks, and I can tell he wants to rub his eyes, to check if he’s dreaming.
“Hey, kid,” he says instead. “I’ve already told you: call me Evan.”
“Hold up,” I exclaim, way too loudly. “How do you two know each other?”
