Page 3 of Girls Will Be Girls
I’ve gone through more eras than Tay Tay trying to find what is mine. Some people are mood music listeners, some mood readers, I’m a mood dresser — I’m a walking, talking mood ring. You know how some places are described as three seasons in a day, I’m more like three styles in a day. I’ll leave for the morning looking like Barbie, spend the afternoon running errands like Adam Sandler, and go out at night doing my best impression of a cowgirl.
There are moments where cowgirl and Barbie overlap, and it’s a beautiful harmony of what has become known amongst my friends as my bachelorette wardrobe. There may or may not be a fuzzy pink cowboy hat involved.
Now that I’m not being controlled by the fear of being called basic, I have embodied basic, and basic is heaven.
Basic is being like all the other girls, and fuck I love that.
Once I’ve doused myself in micellar water, spritzed a tonic over every inch of skin, and heaped on a dangerously thick layerof deodorant — who even cares about aluminium poisoning anymore — I head toward the counter. Just as I reach the group of people waiting for their drinks, the barista yells out the next order.
“Lou!”
It only just drowns out the harrowing squeals of childlike wonder, but I accept my good luck of being next and push my way through the crowd to take my cup. I also pop another dollar in the tip jar as I appreciate the friendliness of using a nickname. Makes me feel like she and I could be best friends.
I leave the shop, head held high, smile on my face, things truly coming up Millhouse, until a few steps and a sip later, I realize my luck was too good to be true and I just accepted a black coffee.
Ahotblack coffee.
The bitterness makes me want to throw up everywhere.
Clearly, this morning has killed off more brain cells than I had left
I take another deep breath and turn back around to get the right order, determined not to let something small bother me, but once I step through the door, I notice the shop is even more packed than before. It’s chaotic enough in here that maybe I should just accept the drink so they don’t have to make another. They’ve had a tough day as well, they don’t need the hassle.
I stand in limbo, chewing on my lip and hesitating.
I really want my sugar rush of a drink instead, but it’s for the greater good.
It’s not worth it.
I’ll live.
I turn back out over the threshold, having made my decision, when something cold, wet, and hazelnutty crashes into my chest. I jump, squealing at the hit of ice-cold liquid running down my front.
“Oh fuck.”A panicked voice says in front of me. “I’m so sorry.”
This is fine.
It’s sticky.
But it’s fine.
“It’s-” I start to say just that, then notice that I am very much braless right now, in a soaking white t-shirt.
I frantically lift my arms to cover the obvious see-through fabric, but I forgot about the hot to-go cup in my hand. I almost spill it on myself to go with the cold coffee starter, but my new friend grabs it out of my hand before I have the chance.
“Can I-” He starts again, and I cross my arms over myself in a tight self-hug. “Can I get you some napkins, or do you want my shirt? Here, take my shirt.”
I look up, and he starts lifting the hem of his shirt over his chest one-handed. “Stop-” I go to grab his hand, then remember my own hands are meant to be covering confidential content, so I cross them back down in front of me and pray my blush doesn’t get worse than it already is. “Please don’t strip. I’m fine. It’s fine.”
He looks at me with a pitying face. “I’m sorry. Really, I didn’t see you.”
“All good.” I try to smile.
“Not good at all.” He lets out a sheepish laugh. “I just soaked you.”
And that’s when my brain decides to take him and his gorgeous face in, clearly jump-started with the wordsoaked.
His fluffy brown hair is messy and his chin stubbled, like he overslept, or didn’t sleep at all, but in a confusingly appealing way. Like he was up to no good, the kind I’d like to be up to with him if I wasn’t dripping in coffee right now.
