Page 27 of Fluke
Jenny giggles.
“Oh, okay,” I say. “We’re just going to forget about you accidentally going live on Social while having a conversation with the bartender about which alcohol makes you the horniest?”
She gasps. “Hey, he went home with me that night and tested my theory that whiskey makes me frisky. I regret nothing. Not a damn thing.”
I snort.
“So a marg and a water?” Jenny asks.
“No, two margs,” I say.
Kerissa lifts a brow. “I’m just having iced water.”
“Can I add an extra shot of tequila in my margarita?” I ask, laughing. “That sounds like a country song. Could be a Kenny Chesney hit, I think.”
“Will you stop it?” Kerissa says, laughing too. “I don’t think you need an extra shot tonight. Good grief.”
“One of us is going to enjoy this Friday night, and that someone isme.”
Kerissa rubs her forehead as if she’s the one who’s going to wake up sick tomorrow. At least if I’m throwing up, I won’t be thinking about my plethora of external problems. It’s the cheap way out, and I know it. But a girl can only take so much shit in one day.
“I’ll be back,” Jenny says before scooting off through the tables.
The breeze is hot despite the fans in each corner of the patio. The tarp covering the ceiling rattles in the wind, creating an interesting backdrop to the mariachi music playing overhead.
Kerissa takes out her phone and starts swiping around the screen. I side-eye my device sitting on the table, but the idea of picking it up and opening apps requires more energy than I currently have to give it. Instead, I breathe in the wonderful aroma of spices from the kitchen below us and watch a family across the patio celebrate a little girl’s birthday.
I smile as I watch them, enjoying the glee on their faces despite my mood.
Kerissa watches me with a puzzled expression.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m not sure …” She narrows her eyes. “You asked me to meet you here in a very shouty, aggressive-ish text, so I assumed you had news about work. But then you order a margarita with an extra shot of tequila and are talking about country songs.”
“So?”
“Sothat sets off my best friend spidey-senses. That combo usually means you’re trying to forget whatever happened in the twelve hours prior.”
I point at her. “You would be correct. Damn, you’re good.”
She sighs. “I should’ve ordered that margarita.”
“Well, I tried to insertmybest friend logic into this situation, but you overrode me. Now you’re going to have to endure the pain of dealing with my drama without the buffer of an adult beverage. It’s your own fault.”
“Sometimes I wonder how we function together.”
“Easy,” I say. “Only one of us can be dramatic at a time. Right now, I call dibs.”
“And what if I have a little drama to share?”
I make a face. “Excuse me? You have drama and didn’t start this conversation with that? Do tell.”
“I thought you called dibs.”
My hand flicks through the air. “I did. But my drama is painful drama. Yours is usually hot, sometimes kinky drama, and I wholeheartedly live vicariously through you and your sordid life. You getwhiskey frisky,and I get … rum … numb.”
Kerissa furrows her brows, chuckling. “What does that even mean? You don’t drink rum.”
