Page 34 of Can't Kiss the Chef

A freshly mixed rum and coke is in my coffee tumbler when someone lays on their car’s horn. I nearly throw my cup acrossthe room.

I’m pouring myself a double shot when Lola’s name pops up on my phone, telling me she is sitting in my driveway.

I call an audible and add another shot to my cup. According to the generation’s greatest philosopher, Drake, you can’t drink all day if you don’t start in the morning. This is also our last party before my senior season starts, so why not?

The weather has finally cooled. We had a stretch of ninety-degree days that made me want to move to Alaska, so I’m happy that I can leave the house in jeans and a hoodie.

Lola’s eyes are glued to her phone, so she doesn’t notice me when I walk around the front of her car. I bang on the hood a couple of times, she jumps, her eyes pulling away from her phone, startled by the unexpected noise.

Her eyes narrow, and her brows pinch as she shoots me both her middle fingers. I flash a smile at my always charming friend. Or almost friend, again.

“Hey Pip, how was your trip home?”

“Well it really wasn’t supposed to be a trip home. We went for Izzy’s birthday, but I was guilt tripped into stopping by home for brunch with my parents and grandparents. It actually was really nice.”

I suppress my smile. “That’s awesome, Lo.”

I bend the straw I put in my tumbler and take a long sip before I place it in the cupholder. Lola looks down at the tumbler and then back at me.

“You didn’t think I’d want a coffee after I woke up at the ass crack of dawn after celebrating a twenty-first birthday?”

“Ahh, yes, I would have thought to do that if it was coffee in that cup.”

“If it’s not coffee in there, what is it?”

“Rum and coke.”

Lola’s eyes go big as she looks at the clock on her dashboard. “Byron, it’s 12:01.”

“I know, but you know we start practice next week,” I tell her matter of factly.

“Don’t drink so much before the party that I have to babysit you tonight. I have a friend coming from Hamilton.”

Charlotte must be coming tonight. I didn’t know that. I’ve always thought she and Aaron would hit it off.

“Don’t worry, girl,” I say in a high-pitched voice as I tip my hand in Lola’s direction. “You know I can hold my liquor.”

Lola rolls her eyes. “Whatever you say, Byron.”

The nail salon is in town so it only takes a few minutes to get there. We don’t speak much. I sip my drink and she hums along to the breakup song playing through the car’s speakers. I don’t feel the need to fill the silence. It’s not awkward or anxiety-inducing. It’s the kind of quiet that happens when you feel as comfortable as I do right now.

The little hot baths at the front of the pedicure chairs are filled and waiting for us. This isn’t my first pedicure. I think Lola thought that I’d think this is some kind of knock to my masculinity. Maybe I’d refuse to cross this item off the list.

This is the first genuine one-on-one time we have had recently. We aren’t meeting to talk about our project or hanging out in a group setting. It’s something we would have done last year. We were never embarrassed of our relationship. We just wanted to make sure it was real before we told our friends about it. Inter-friend dating-or friendsect as I’ve coined it–can get awkward and we didn’t want to drag our friends into it if it ended up burning out.

As I settle in my seat, Lola picks through the nail polishes that line the wall in front of the spa. Even in her platform Converse she still needs to get up on her tip-toes to select thecolor she wants. The sleeve of her shirt falls leaving her shoulder bare. For the first time I notice the small tattoo.

“Are those boxing gloves?”

Lola glances down, confusion etched into her expression.

“Yeah, this was one of my first tattoos. Boxing gloves for Rocky–” She leaves the words hanging.

Then it clicks.

“Rocky is from Philly.”

Lola flashes me her most genuine smile, and damn, she is beautiful.

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