Page 24 of Ella Gets the D
“Is this something El could work on later?” Erica’s coffee-brown eyes plead with mine to not attempt what we both know is an impossible jump given the amount of liquor sloshing through my veins.
Amy’s shoulders droop, tempting a strap on her white summer dress to fall. She assesses me and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. Shit, she’s gonna cry. We only met at a bake sale a few months ago, but it’s clear that Amy has a soft spot for overplanning and trying to make people feel better.
I caught her sniffling in a corner after her presentation at a PTA meeting. It included a slideshow—twenty-three slides, to be exact. Her intentions run in lock-step with her passion, even if it borders on robot behavior.
“Hey.” I place a hand over hers, which is still gripping her coveted school supplies, and smile. “Thank you for being so thoughtful. What do we do?”
I’m already on thin ice with Jesus. I don’t need to be placed on probation for messing with His patron saint of crafts.
Amy smooths out the nonexistent wrinkles in her tea-length dress and clears her throat. “It’s simple, really,” she says with a shy smile. “We go around and each add something for you to do before your divorce becomes final. Here.” She hands me the white binder withDivorce Bucket Listin a glittery gold script surrounded by faux floral stems. “I started your checklist.”
I flip through the first few pages of yearbook-style pics of our crew. She really is so thoughtful.
And apparently quite the freak.
“Nipple piercings?” My eyes stall at the two-word challenge in perfect cursive.
Morgan chokes on her drink, then nearly tosses it onto the table to make a beeline for the binder. She snatches it out of my hand, and if it wasn’t for her chocolate hue, my friend would look like Casper the Friendly Ghost.
Her brows long jump to her forehead. She looks at me with wide eyes before her gaze lands on Amy. “Public sex in the Lincoln Memorial? That’s oddly specific.”
Three sets of eyes land on the modern-day Suzy Homemaker, who leans back in her chair with a full-on grin and crosses her legs. The shy person who nearly cried has left the building. In her place is a woman with a quiet confidence and a kink that might land her in jail.
She twirls a pineapple ring on her right hand, one I thought was a summer fashion choice. “It has the best acoustics,” she says with a shrug.
“What?!” the rest of us shout.
They say you never know what happens behind closed doors, but Amy just busted hers wide open. Of course the resident good girl swings from chandeliers.
I’m at a loss for words as I shake off images of Amy skeeting all over historical markers across our nation’s capital. How does she have the time with raising four kids and her volunteering schedule that puts us to shame? Her husband keeps a protractor next to his wallet, for goodness’ sake. He’s a civil engineer who does site inspections and analyzes government regulations.
“We don’t need details,” I say with a hand in the air. “I appreciate the thought you put into this, but sex in a monument isn’t how I get down—respectfully.”
She nods.
Erica tilts her head to the side and purses her lips. “You forgot the nipple piercings.”
I smile into my third cocktail of the night. “No, I didn’t.”
Three sets of eyes land on me.
“Stop staring!” I chuckle and drain the margarita Morgan ordered, which replaces itself when another lands on the table. It’s a miracle I’m still forming complete sentences. “My titties are amazing.”
It’s true, I have nice ones. Are they double-Ds that would knock a man unconscious? No, but they’re the roundest C-cups you’ll see with rosewood areolas. Not too big or small.
Look at me, talking about my titties on a Saturday night.
“Well, okay then, Ms. Piercing.” Erica huffs out a laugh and snaps. “What are we adding to the list?”
Amy hops to her feet. “A one-night stand!”
“You’re done for the night.” Morgan takes her glass and pats the upholstered bench for her to take a seat. “What about a haircut? A bob, maybe?”
Erica sucks the meat clean off a chicken wing in one go, then licks her thick lips to clear the excess sauce. “Hold up. Get back to the man.” Her legs spread, and she rests her elbows on her knees, pressing the lime green fabric of her jumpsuit against her ebony skin. She’s gorgeous without trying and has the personality to match. Fierce, piercing, and natural.
Seriously, the only makeup the woman wears is a lip stain andmaybeblush.
She moved to Arlington from Baltimore last year to teach economics. Our chance meeting took place during one of two times I went to barre class in the city. After the warm-up, we exchanged afuck thisside-eye and spent the remainder of the hour at a nearby coffee shop.
