Page 7 of The 7 Rules of Moving On
When her cheeks turned pink, he thought she deserved the blush. He also thought the color made her even more beautiful.
“While hookups under the influence can be harmless fun for sure, they have a horrible reputation of leading straight to the devastating effects of rule number five.”
“No shameovers,” he recited. “What’s a shameover?” The sound of her empty drink rattling up her straw tingled his bartender senses. “Refill?”
She slid him her glass. “A shameover is like a hangover, but instead of a headache and puking, it’s self-loathing and ice cream. Which leads to even more shame, and then more ice cream, and then more drunk. It’s like a great big self-hate snowball that destroys everything in its path.”
Pouring her another drink, he said, “I’ve definitely had one or two of those.” He pushed the image of Tina’s face out of his mind. “And now I have a name for it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, rule number six is paramount.”
He scanned the card. “No catching feelings.” Setting the card down on the bar with a snap, he said, “Oh, come on. You can’t referee that. Nobody can turn off their feelings.”
She snatched the card back off the bar. “Oh, yes they can. There is no place for feelings when someone is trying to get over a bad breakup. For at least six months.”
“Six months?” He was floored. “You feel nothing for six months, and then, what, on day one-eighty it’s likebam, you’re allowed to fall in love again? That’s ridiculous.”
When she reached out to place her hand over his, the bar lights flickered out, or at least it felt like they did. He’d spent plenty of time on the wrong side of heartache, but there was no way in hell he’d ever be able to turn off a sensation like that, like the warm weight of her hand on his, for six damn months just because of some laminated card.
“Trig, I feel like this is stressing you out.” She looked concerned. “We can talk about something else if you’re getting overstimula—”
“Very funny,” he said, but he didn’t pull his hand away, not until she did first.
“You’re not wrong, though,” she admitted. “Following rule number six isn’t easy. But that’s where rule number seven comes in.”
“What’s rule number seven? You took the card away.”
“Rule number seven is: No matter what, the wingwoman is always right.”
“So, as Dawn’s wingwoman, you’ve been more or less babysitting her all week? Making sure she doesn’t get drunk and fuck somebody or, god forbid, accidentally fall in love?” He poured peanuts into a bowl and slid it between them.
“I’m allergic to peanuts.”
“Shit!” He hurled the nuts, bowl and all, into the trash like they were on fire. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. And I’m not babysitting Dawn. I’mwingwomaningher. It’s totally different.”
When he held up a bag of pretzels, shaking it side to side, she nodded and he poured. “How is it different?”
“Like, it’s this essential thing. It’s like you’re tasked with helping this other person get through a very hard situation. It’s your job to keep them safe, but also to not hold them back from the things that might help them move on. Like sober hookups, for example.”
“Go on.” He was definitely buzzed now. That was the only thing that could explain his urge to keep leaning closer to her, to sigh inwardly at the way her lips curled at the corners and her eyelashes brushed her cheeks when she blinked.
“Drunk banging is off the table, of course.”
“Because of rule number four. And because of shameovers,” he supplied.
“Correct. But sober banging is fine. Maybe even necessary. While I act as her wingwoman, Dawn is trusting me to intervene when she’s breaking the agreed upon rules, but also to stay out of her way when she’s doing her thing. Maybe even cheer her on from the sidelines.” A frown sank between her brows. “Even though I have no idea why she made out with that one dude from California.” She made a gagging noise. “He looked like my dad.”
“I think she’s lucky to have a friend like you.”
Breaking the ensuing silence in which Trig let himself stare at a grinning Kissie for a period of time that could have been half a second, could have been an eternity, Pudge called out from down the bar, “We’re going swimming.” Up from his stool, he’d looped his arm around Grandma Betty’s waist. “Would you and your friend like to come?”
“I have to close up,” Trig told Kissie, still staring, “but you’re welcome to go if you want to. The stars are amazing tonight. And those are—”
“Healing waters,” she filled in, grinning.
He didn’t want her to go, but it was inevitable. She would leave tomorrow anyway, which was a thought that made him immediately and profoundly miserable.
