Page 22 of The 7 Rules of Moving On
KISSIE
“Ifeel awful leaving you up here alone,” Kissie said, rinsing the plastic shot glass after dosing Dawn with cough medicine again.
“Don’t. I’m just sleeping anyway.” She coughed into her pillow. “And coughing. This is your weekend, Kiss. You need to go have some fun.”
“How do I look?” Kissie had slipped into her favorite red, lacy, cocktail dress. It had a deep V in the front that made her boobs look amazing, a fitted waist, and a flared skirt excellent for twirling.
“Hundred percent bangable,” Dawn said around a yawn. “Now go away. Go get laid. I need to sleep.”
After kissing her fingertips and pressing them over Dawn’s still feverish forehead, Kissie slipped out of the room, leaving Dawn with the remote, a ginger ale, and the remaining two heart-shaped sugar cookies.
* * *
The bar was packedwall to wall. Kissie stood in the doorway, unable to do anything but watch.
Trig was in his element. He was dancing behind his bar, sliding to the left and right, pouring seven drinks at once and somehow keeping them all straight. He was smiling and laughing and it was so obvious by the way he made eye contact, leaned in close, listened carefully to every one of his patrons, that he made everyone in this bar feel important and welcome. Even though the magic, healing water might be what drew the guests,hewas the heart and soul of this place.
“You made it!” Ryan shouted to her above the thumping beat of Rob Base’s “It Takes Two.”
“What is it with you guys and nineties house music?” she asked, climbing onto a stool after getting a tight hug from a tipsy Ryan.
“I don’t know,” he said, loose and laughing while doing the cabbage patch. “It always gets the party started.”
Tables crowded the walls, turning the center of the bar into a dance floor riot filled with young, good-looking people. She could make this happen. She could do this. Before the night was over, she was determined to at least make out with one of these people.
“Hey, Kissie,” Trig said, dancing up to her, his hips gyrating to the music in this way that made her go momentarily cross-eyed.
“Hey, Trig.” She leaned forward. “Can I get a drink?”
Grinning at her, still dancing, he suggested, “Bay Breeze?”
“Good lord, yes,” she replied, moving her shoulders in time with his hips.
“Trig,” Ryan said, staring at them. “You have a knife back there?”
“Sure, buddy. Whatcha need that for?”
Trig’s gaze was still locked on hers. They were totally eye-making out. She hadn’t seen him for a couple of hours and her eyes, like, needed this. They needed his smile and his beard the same way her body needed food or water.
“To slice through this wall of sexual tension.” Ryan ran his hand up and down between their faces. “On second thought, I might need a chainsaw.”
Kissie snorted while Trig flipped Ryan the bird.
“All right, wingman,” Kissie said, wrenching her eyes from Trig’s lips and hips and pointing them back toward the dance floor, to all the nameless, faceless, no-risk-of-a-Craigslist-ad people shecouldactually kiss tonight. “Who should I make a move on?”
Garnishing her drink with a lime, Trig leaned onto his elbows beside her. “What about Chris?” He nodded toward a tall, rangy white guy with a neck tattoo doing the sprinkler in the middle of the dance floor.
“That guy?” she said, squinting at him. He was kind of cute, if not a little lanky.
“No, not Chris,” Ryan insisted. “He’s got that weird dog collar thing.”
Kissie frowned. “Dog collar thing?”
“That’s only a rumor,” Trig said.
Ryan disagreed. “Janey Durnam said he wouldn’t fuck her unless she put it on.”
“Nope.” Kissie shook her head. “No dog collars. I’m claustrophobic, feel strangled by turtlenecks. Who else?”
