Page 1 of Space Balls: Houston, We Have Liftoff
One
#fucklove
Rose
Fuck love.
I knock back the rest of my gin and tonic and lean forward over the artfully arranged table setting, propping my chin in my hand.
Fuck ’em.
Through the coral peonies, white hydrangea, and various heights of candles in the table centerpiece, I watch my brother twirl my best friend Jackie around on the dance floor. Flynn’s talking to her while smiling widely, probably trying to distract Jackie from counting her steps. And by the dreamy look in my friend’s eyes, he’s doing a good job.
I take a deep breath, push my palms onto the tabletop, and straighten in my chair.
My brother is happy. My best friend is happy. This is the best possible outcome for two of my favorite people. This is good. No, it’sgreat.
I throw up some jazz hands for effect. A couple passing by gives me the side-eye.
Whatever.
Reaching into my cleavage for my flask, all I find is my roll of fifties I keep for emergencies. I pout, remembering that my other bestie, Trish, said my metal flask ruined the line of my bridesmaid dress and made me leave it behind.
Ugh.Propping my chin again, I contemplate all the reasons I should be laughing and smiling with the rest of these yahoos.
I have awesome best friends and two lovable, if moronic older brothers. Who, even if they are in love with each other or someone else, still all love me.
I’m graduating college a whole semester early. With honors.
I have huge boobs, and I know how to use ’em.
Also, I’m ridiculously rich.
Ishouldbe poised to take on the world. And yet, I’m having a pathetic, chiffon-wrapped pity party for one at the bridal table.
Hashtag first-world problems. Hashtag drama llama. Hashtag get over yourself.
I catch Mike’s eye, my brother’s partner at the auto shop, and we both nod in greeting. He’s sitting next to a pretty brunette two tables over. Of course he is.
I’m happy for them. Forallof them. Really.
It’s just that all this coupledom happened sofast. I finally found my ride or die girl posse on my twenty-first birthday. That was only six months ago. Six months and three friends. Then two bothers and a male interloper joined the party, and suddenly I’m the last woman standing.
I’ve always hated math.
Shimmying my breasts into place for optimal cleavage, I look around for a waiter to bribe into becoming my personal gin-and-tonic errand boy. Or girl. I’m an equal opportunist to anyone who gets me a drink.
Eyeing the room, I slump back into my cleavage when all the waitstaff circling me are balancing full trays of hors d’oeuvres. No drinks.
This wedding needs to get its priorities straight.
Reaching across the table, I steal the glass of champagne from in front of Trish’s place setting and down it in one go.
These glasses are for the bridal toast later. Whatever. Needs must be met and all that.
I steal Ian’s champagne glass next, knocking it back, then line it up with the other empties in front of me.
“That’s quite a line of dead soldiers you got there.”
