Page 109 of I Love My Mistake

“Don’t hate the player. Hate the game.” He leaves with a cool saunter as I watch, smiling at him and shaking my head in disbelief. Cute ass, though.

Picking up my glass again, I take a sip and lean back on the comfy couch. Three more days to Saturday night. I can’t believe it. The New Yorker is going to be there. Amber and Josh. A whole bunch of people I don’t know. Mark is going to be there. Just thinking about it makes me sad and happy at the same time, because Jess is going to be there, too, and I haven’t figured out what to say to her… or if I even can. I’m so lost thinking of the future, I don’t see in the present that a woman is walking up to me wearing a too tight, too short magenta dress with heels that are apparently too high for her to be walking around in with any sort of grace. When she stands right in front of me and hits a pose, I see her for the first time. My eyes go a little wide in surprise. “Can I help you?”

She leans forward with her boobs overflowing the scoop of her dress, and says in a strong Jersey accent, “You with Jason?”

My eyes narrow quickly. “Why do you ask?”

Her hand goes up, index finger wagging. “Because, girl, you should watch out. That man is no good. He’s a player something fierce.”

So that’s why she’s got that face on; she’s jealous. With a bored glance, I check out her outfit, taking my time as I finish off my martini. “Jason’s alright. He doesn’t mean any harm.”

Her head goes back and forth on her neck, her big earrings swaying back and forth. “Uh uh. You gotta run. He is a player. I’m telling you.”

Now I’m irritated because it’s clear she’s not going to budge until she feels she’s made her point. Well, no one tells me who to fuck and who not to fuck. And no one bad-mouths my friends. Picking up my bag and coat, I stand and tower over her with steel in my eyes, my voice deadly calm. “Honey, that’s my friend you’re talking about. I’ve been sleeping with Jason for years. If anyone got played, it was only you.”

Her jaw drops and I walk past her to the bar. I point to the back couch and throw two twenties on the bar. “Can you get that woman a drink, too? And keep the change.”

The bartender nods and I walk out. Man, we women are crazy, sometimes.

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