Page 4 of Like It's 1999

“Her southern name?”

She looks at me like I’m the weirdo here. “Yes.”

“And do you have a southern name?”

“Well, duh.”

“And it is… ?”

“Allie Mae.”

“Ah, very creative.” Dodging away from a jabbing foot, I ask, “Do you two have other names for each other?”

“Steve. We were roommates for four years—fourformativeyears.”

“So…?”

“So of course we have other nicknames.”

“Can I hear some?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “What’s it worth to you?”

“You get dibs on…” I flip through memories of romcoms I’ve watched, trying to think of what it is that bridesmaids do. “You get to choose the place where we… get our nails done?”

Her brow furrows.

“Before the wedding,” I clarify.

She laughs as if she’d forgotten all about the wedding. “Ha, I’ll take it. Okay, well, there are our regular nicknames, like Kay-Kay and Al Pal, then there are our mad names—what we use when the other one’s in trouble—Miss Katherine Louise and Miss Alice Jane. Oh, and we have pirate names!”

“Pirate names?’

“Yeah. Katie Matey and Captain Al.”

At this, my laugh is so loud that Pam yells, “Go to bed you two!”

“Oh-kaay, Mommy.” Alice yells back, sounding like’s she’s seven rather than twenty-seven.

I hold a finger to my lips. “Shh, you’ll get us in trouble. Rock, paper, scissors for who gets the bathroom first?”

Her jaw drops, and a delicate hand splays over her chest. “You mean I don’t get to go first automatically?” she asks, lengthening her vowels into her every-once-in-a-while southern accent.

“Keep talking in that accent and you’ll get whatever you want.”

“Hm. I’ll keep that in mind.” After leaning over to give my cheek a quick peck, she tries to push off my thigh to stand but loses her balance and lands on my lap. “Whoops.”

Hands on her hips to steady her, I can’t stop myself from pressing my nose into her hair. “You smell good.”

Instead of trying to stand again, she leans back into me. “You feel good.”

And suddenly, a certain part of me feels especially good. “‘You know how much damage we could do to each other in an hour?’” I whisper into her neck, pretty sure she’ll get theSome Kind of Wonderfulreference.

The house is so quiet I can hear her breath hitch before she answers. “‘It’s kind of a revolting thought.’” Turning around to straddle my thighs, she whispers, “So bad it might be good.”

My brain has flown south, but I’ve got to ask. “Are you drunk?”

“Just a little buzzed.” She levers back to look me in the eye. “Could be a fun way to start 1989.”

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