Page 61 of Against The Rules

“Shut up. Tell me what he really does.”

“Shit.” I cover my face with my hands.

“What the hell, Savannah? Is he like… a supervillain? Is he a…” Her voice drops to a whisper, “Is he an alien?”

“Oh my god, Presley, what? What does that even mean? Why are you being so weird?”

“Why are you being so weird? Now I really have to know.”

Maybe it’s the tequila, maybe it’s because I miss my friend… or maybe it’s because I need someone else to tell me what to do, because I want to tell her everything.

Everything.

I close my eyes and blurt it out, letting the tequila and taco combination guide my words.

“His-name-is-Tyler-Matthews-and-he’s-the-wide-receiver-for-the-Wilmington-Beavers.”

She inhales noisily.

I crack open an eye, grimacing at her.

“Good for you,” she finally says, cackling. “You fucking rebel. Love to see it.” She pulls her phone out. “Now let’s see what our boy looks like.”

“Oh god.” My hands go back over my face.

“No wonder you said it was complicated. For crying out loud. Savannah! You are little miss follow the rules, never even talk bad about the stupid cheer team, god forbid they think you’re not grateful, and here you are, breaking the rule you told me was the biggest of all. Dating a player.”

I make a wordless noise, unwrapping a second taco and straight up pouring queso over it.

Presley looks at me with naked concern over her phone. “What? What else. There’s something else. I can tell.”

I lick some queso off my fingers, then chomp down on the cheese-laden taco. Delish.

“Fine. Eat. But don’t think I’m going to forget in the time it takes you to swallow that taco.” She taps the screen of her phone, then sucks in a breath. “Bitch, please! He is gorgeous. I remember him now. He’s the fuck boy, right?”

“I married him,” I admit around my taco.

“Amarma mim?” Presley squints at me. “What did you just say? Amarma mim…” she trails off, her face paling. “Shut the fuck up.”

“I’m so screwed,” I say.

“Was it a good screw at least?” Presley asks, only half-kidding.

I give her a hopeless look and get up from the table. Another few swallows, and the martini glass empties. Down the hatch! I amble over to the blender, put the martini glass in the sink, and find the sole reusable straw in the house.

I plunk it in the blender pitcher and saunter back to the table.

“Jesus, Savannah, absolutely not.” She gets up, takes the blender out of my hands, and disappears into the kitchen.

I sadly crunch on a chip.

Presley returns, setting a full plastic cup of margarita in front of me. “What the hell, babe? Are you okay? Did I get that taco-talk right? You married him?”

“I got drunk in Vegas and married him,” I moan. I give the margarita the evil eye. Maybe I shouldn’t drink anymore.

“You could have gotten it annulled. Did you get it annulled? Or did you get a divorce?”

I grab the queso, about to pour it straight in my mouth. Presley grabs my wrist and stops me from committing a cheese crime of epic proportions.

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