Page 2 of The Close-Up
Her mouth twists as she sighs.
“I’m serious. I’m done with relationships. The few long-term ones I’ve had have brought me nothing but heartache and frustration since I started dating as a teenager. And they all ended in disaster. Brody cheated. The guy before him, Tyler, ghosted me after nearly a year together. The guy before that—Aaron—never, not once referred to me as his girlfriend for the two years we were together, only as ‘the girl I’m seeing.’ And what’s-his-name before that broke up with me on my twenty-first birthday. While we were out having drinks with my friends. Then went home with the bartender. Remember?”
Harper winces.
“Clearly, happily ever afters are not in the cards for me. So from now on, it’ll just be me.”
This is what a lifetime of idealizing your parents’ perfect marriage does to a person. When you grow up with parents like mine who never fight, who can’t keep their hands off each other even after nearly forty years together, who still go out on weekly romantic date nights, it warps your expectations. It makes you think that you too will someday meet that perfect someone and have an equally perfect relationship.
But sixteen years of failed relationships have taught me one thing: it’s never gonna happen.
Harper shakes her head, clearly disapproving of my relationship ban. “Fine. Keeping within mystyle, I won’t say a word about your ridiculous ban. You know what else is my style? Cheering you up when you’re feeling down. And you know the best way to do that?”
“No clue.” I finish off the bourbon in two more gulps. I don’t even stop to taste; I just guzzle and let it burn down my throat. I’m instantly light-headed. I hardly ever indulge in alcohol, so three drinks in less than forty-five minutes means I’m well on my way to drunk.
Harper signals the bartender to refill my glass. Scratch that.Fourdrinks.
“The absolute best way to cheer yourself up is to find a new hottie to cleanse your palate.” Harper fixes her gaze on a guy sitting at the bar, his back to our booth.
My brow flees to my hairline. “What?! No way am I hooking up with some rando!”
She takes my shrieked response in stride, shaking her head. “For god’s sake, Naomi. I’m not suggesting that. I just think you should flirt with someone a little.”
“Oh.” I inhale, relieved. “I’m not really in the mood.”
“Come on, Miss No-More-Relationships. There’s no better way to kick off a relationship ban than flirting with a hottie, zero expectations attached. You can cross it off your fuck-it list.”
My fuck-it list. I haven’t thought of it in years. When we were teenagers, Harper and I came up with a list of silly and crazy things we’d like to someday do, like bungee jumping and making out with a hot stranger at midnight on New Year’s Eve. We joke about it whenever we feel the urge to make fun of our naïve teenage selves.
“The sooner you move on—the more you look at other guys, even if it’s just for a fun conversation that won’t go anywhere—the easier it will be to get over Brody.”
Harper’s words take hold in my brain, like an anchor digging into the ocean floor. That actually makes sense.
I grip the table to steady myself. “I think I might be a tad too drunk for this.”
“Flirting is always more fun when you’re a bit drunk.”
She says it in such a matter-of-fact way, I believe her. I stand up and smooth down the front of my flowy white blouse, which I’m wearing with a slate gray pencil skirt and black heels. I push up the sleeves, annoyed that I didn’t think to change out of my work clothes before I stormed out of the apartment in a rage.
“You look amazing as always,” Harper says, as if reading my mind.
I run my fingers through my hair. “I don’t feel very amazing at the moment.”
She pins me with you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me eyes. “Naomi, you’re tall with long arms and legs, perky tits, and a bubble butt. You’re probably the best-looking woman that’s ever walked into this dive.”
“Next to you.” Even though I appreciate Harper building me up, she’s a stunner. She’s got an adorable girl-next-door face, and the petite and busty figure I’ve envied since we hit puberty together. We both share the same background—Filipino and Caucasian—as well as the same dark hair, dark eyes, and tan skin.
She winks at me. “Now go get your flirt on with Mr. Broad Muscly Back over there. He’s been eyeing you since we sat down.”
I turn on my heels and pause for a beat, taking extra care to make sure I don’t fall.
“Wow,” I mutter to myself.
Just the sight of this dude from behind is impressive. His crisp dove gray dress shirt is an inadequate cover for the toned muscle underneath. Sculpted shoulders and thick arms highlight his broad frame perfectly. The back of his head is covered in cropped light brown hair. Judging by the slicked-back style he sports on top, he’s got one of those trendy skin-fade haircuts that European soccer players and male models favor.
I lick my lips. I don’t even need to see his face. There’s no doubt it is just as attractive as the rest of him. No way would I ever approach a guy this hot if I were sober. He is unquestionably out of my league.
I take a breath, and the moment of insecurity passes. This is just for fun—a simple distraction.
