Page 1 of The Close-Up
Chapter One
Nothing good comes from a dick pic. I know that now.
It’s not that I ever thought highly of them. Like so many other women, I’ve been sent more than my fair share of unsolicited penis photos. They’re never, ever fun. It’s just that tonight I discovered the kind of irreversible damage they can inflict.
Tonight I watched my year-and-a-half relationship go down the drain, all because of one ill-timed junk shot.
“Think of it this way,” my cousin Harper says, pointing her martini glass at me. “At least you found out now what a gross crap-weasel Brody is. At least you weren’t married. And at least you didn’t have kids together.”
I squint at her over the rim of my second Amaretto sour in the last half-hour. Harper is many things: my cousin, birthday twin, best friend, and a workaholic architect who earns an impressive mid-six figures in the Bay Area. One thing she’s not? An emotional shoulder to cry on. She’s always pragmatic and logical, even when I want to trash my cheating ex over drinks.
My cheating ex as of three hours ago.
I drain the last of my drink, then slam it on the table. “Yeah. Finding out my boyfriend cheated because he mistakenly texted a picture of his penis to me with the words, ‘Miss you, Laura. General Monster Dong is aching to be inside you, baby,’ is so much better.”
Just speaking that heinous nickname Brody came up with for his penis makes me want to crush my empty glass in my bare hand.
“Itisbetter, Naomi. Imagine how much worse it would have been if you had been home with kids and you got that text.”
She’s right. “Of course it’s better. But it still absolutely sucks to know that I wasted the last year and a half with him. I thought he was...”
“What exactly did you think Brody would be?” Harper narrows her hickory-hued eyes.
But I can’t. No matter how long I wait for the words to come, they can’t hide the truth: my relationship with Brody wasn’t going to last anyway. And I knew it the whole time I was with him.
I glance around this dive bar that somehow exists in the upscale Nob Hill neighborhood of San Francisco, desperate for a distraction. I try staring at the scratched-to-hell hardwood floors, the impressive layer of grime that coats every single one of the ancient light fixtures in this basement bar. When that fails, I try gazing at the handful of other bar patrons, all of whom are either enraptured by the basketball game playing on the flat-screen or staring into their drinks. Nothing works. And that’s when I face the truth.
Brody was a bad habit, a go-nowhere relationship that I had gotten used to being in. We were never going to get married, buy a place together, have kids, or do any of that long-term life stuff you typically want to do with your significant other. And I knew that.
When I turn back to Harper, I expect to see her lips pursed and one eyebrow raised, her signature “I told you so” face. She’s had it ever since we were kids.
Instead a soft expression radiates from behind her thick bangs. It’s pure empathy.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she says. “If I see Brody’s smug face again, I’m going to punch it. Cheating is never, ever okay. If he was unhappy with you, he should have broken up with you. That bastard hurt you in the worst way, but you weren’t right for each other in the first place.”
I picture five-foot-two Harper wailing on six-foot Brody and almost laugh. She’s got the no-bullshit personality of a prison guard when she’s pissed off, and Brody wouldn’t stand a chance.
The lump in my throat dissipates as I swallow. I was so enraged when I received the accidental dick pic this evening that I immediately marched into the bedroom where Brody was and yelled, “My name isn’t Laura, you asshole.” I recommended he give “General Monster Dong” a more realistic nickname, like “Private Average Sized At Best.” Then I stormed out of the apartment while dialing Harper. I didn’t have the time to throw on makeup before leaving like I would have on a normal night, but now I’m silently grateful. At least this way I won’t have mascara streaks running down my cheeks if I end up crying.
I wait out the urge for two long seconds, thankful it doesn’t take hold. “Why do you always have to be so insightful?” I let slip a joyless chuckle.
She reaches over to smooth the ends of my shoulder-blade-length hair. “Because as best friendsandcousins, we know each other better than anyone else. You call me out on my shit, and I call you out on yours. We’ve been doing that since we were in diapers.”
I let a small smile break free, the pain in my chest easing. “Right.”
Harper looks up to thank the bartender, who drops off another gin martini for her and a bourbon for me.
“If you knew Brody wasn’t right for me all along, why didn’t you say something?”
As loving and protective as she is of me, she’s not one to hold back her opinion. She’s never mean about it, unlike some people who use honesty as a flimsy excuse to be assholes; she’s just blunt. And she always, always acts with care and concern.
“Meddling’s not my style. Bringing you here to Spud’s Bar to drink away your post-breakup frustration is more my speed.”
“Here’s to that.” I raise my glass in a mock toast. “And here’s to no more relationships for me. Ever.”
Harper frowns. “Come on, Naomi.”
“Hey.” I point my glass at her. “No meddling, remember?”
