Page 4 of Puppy Love

Adrian doesn’t really know Aurora all that well. None of us do. We see her frequently, sure, but it’s not like you’re going to make best friends with your drive-through barista. Unless you’re Adrian, of course. That’s exactly the kind of person they are. They love everyone until they have a reason not to. I wonder how they do it, and sometimes, I’m jealous of it. But I know that realistically, it’s more of a curse than a blessing.

On the way home, after the dogs have licked their cups of whipped cream clean and everyone but me has passed their drinks around to taste test, Adrian starts to talk about their business, Rise.

The business doesn’t exist yet, and to be honest, sometimes I struggle to understand what it even is. If someone held a gun to my head and asked me to describe it, I only ask to be buried somewhere warm.

I guess if I had to try, I’d say it’s like if a bookstore, café, and art gallery had a threesome. And then a bar, yoga studio, and meditation retreat joined in.

In retrospect, the vision is there. It’s just a matter of learning how to explain it to somebody else.

“—and on the walls, I’ll line up all my paintings. Well, not just my paintings, but other local artists too. And on Saturdays, we’ll drink mimosas and do yoga.”

“Can you do those things at the same time?” Avery asks, cradling Dawson on his lap. Adrian shoots him a glare, and Hayden adjusts his rearview mirror like a disappointed father.

“Be nice,” he says like a warning, really embodying the paternal role.

“It’s going to be awesome, Ry,” I say, sipping my coffee. The bitter flavor hits my taste buds, melting into my mouth before I swallow. I don’t particularly like black coffee, I’m not going to lie. I don’t hate it, it’s just a bit plain. But I haven’t tried it any other way. It’s overwhelming, staring at the menu, knowing that, out of hundreds of combinations, you could pick the one you simply don’t like. Or worse, one that gives you a gurgling, upset stomach. I know what black coffee tastes like. I know how it affects me. So, I order it every time. That way, I know what I’m getting. That way, nothing changes.

two

The Cursed Margarita

Violet

Iflick my wrist, watching as my half-empty margarita creates a whirlpool, tilting up the sides of my glass and slowly absorbing the salt-lined rim. I squint at the clock on the wall.

9:45.

Unsurprisingly, forty-five minutes have passed since Mallory was supposed to arrive at Monsey’s to sign papers. As if on cue, finally, the bar’s large oak door swings open, and her familiar slender figure steps through the frame.

“Sorry, the group session ran late,” Mallory says, before dropping a thick stack of papers onto the center of the table. She’s still in her dance clothes: a pair of magenta leggings and a matching cropped long-sleeve. Her warm amber hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail. It’s the only warm thing about her. “I’m going to go get a drink first, do you need another?” Her tight, nasally voice sucks all the air out of the room, and not in a flattering way.

I take a deep breath. “No, but thanks.”

“Okay then.”

Mallory sashays up to the bar. Her slim hips move from one side to the other, as she intentionally drags each sway out farther than it would naturally go. She pulls a sheer pink tube from her pocket and applies a thick, glossy coat over her lips. The woman loves putting on a show.

It was something I used to love about her, watching everyone’s eyes light up when she walked in the room, like she was the star of the show they called life. And what I loved even more was watching her glow as she basked in that attention. Mallory is stunning. Her pale skin is chiseled perfectly around her face, and her shiny red hair causes everyone’s heads to turn, no matter where she is. I knew everyone stared. I also knew everyone wished they had a chance with her. I just didn’t realize then that they actually did.

But it’s been almost a year since I found those graphic texts, and now that the divorce papers are finally being signed, I’ll be able to put it all behind me.

All twelve years.

Ruthie is going to be stoked. My sister has been waiting for this day for just about as long as we’ve been together.

Mallory returns to the table with another margarita and a glass of merlot.

“I figured you could use it.”

She slides the drink across the table to me. I want to ignore the gesture, but I just can’t bring myself to be so petty.

“Thank you,” I say, though I push the drink to the side. I don’t like the idea of hurting someone’s feelings, even though Mallory completely annihilated mine. Sometimes, I wish I could do it, give her a taste of her own medicine. But every time the thought pops into my head, I get a bitter flavor in my mouth, and my throat grows dry. So, no matter how impatient I’m getting, I’m going to be nice.

“Are you ready?” I ask. It was the first thing to pop into my head that isn’t outwardly rude, and it’s a really stupid question. There are very few people in this world who are “ready” to end a relationship with their high school sweetheart.

But my jaw practically drops when Mallory picks up the pen, scrawls her signature perfectly on the thick black line, then holds it out in my direction.

“I have plans,” she says.

---