Page 19 of Things We Left Behind
“Lucian is pretty upset about your dad’s death. They were close,” Naomi said.
I wanted to argue, to question her. But I didn’t have the energy. I changed the subject instead. “Where’s Waylay?”
“My little tech genius is sleeping over at Liza J’s to fix her smart TV again,” Naomi announced.
Double shit. If overnight child care arrangements had been made, I wasn’t getting rid of them that easily.
Naomi slid her arm around my shoulders and steered me toward the staircase. “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a shower? We’ll get dinner started.”
Forcibly shooed upstairs, I slunk down the wood-paneled hallway on the second floor to my bedroom where I proceeded to take the longest shower in the history of indoor plumbing. I spent the first half of the shower passive-aggressively taking my time in hopes my friends would get bored and leave. When it became clear from the scents of garlic that wafted into the bathroom that this was not going to be the case, I spent the second half crying quietly until I felt as if I’d washed enough emotion down the drain to appear normal for a few hours.
I combed my wet hair and entered my bedroom, crawling onto the window seat. Outside, the snow continued to fall. Knox’s pickup was parked in Lucian’s driveway. I hoped he was having a miserable time with his retaliatory forced socialization.
My stomach growled and I realized I hadn’t eaten since Lucian’s burrito delivery that morning. Except for the French fries I’d stolen off his plate…and out of the bag in the car.
I returned to the bathroom, slapped on some moisturizer, then reluctantly headed downstairs to the kitchen.
My friends had topped store-bought pizzas with hot sauce and banana peppers—my favorite. There were two packs of cookie dough on the counter as well as three bags of chips with an assortment of dips. It looked as though Naomi had brought all the fixings for Honky Tonk margaritas, which she was pouring into five bucket-sized glasses.
“Nothing says mourning like post-funeral margaritas,” I observed.
“Mourning looks like whatever you want it to look like,” Naomi insisted. She had changed out of her clothes and was wearing red thermal pajama shorts with a matching long-sleeve shirt and fuzzy, knee-high socks.
“It can be getting drunk and going sledding at 1:00 a.m. Or it can be pizza, cookies, and a binge watch ofCougar Town,” Lina said. She too had changed into pajamas, but hers were silky and black. Her fuzzy flip-flops had delicate puffs of fake fur that Meow Meow was glaring at from the center of the breakfast nook table. I wandered over and stroked a hand down the cat’s back. She flipped over onto her side with a grumpy grunt and grudgingly accepted my affection.
“You’re not seriously abandoning snowstorm sex with your men just to spend the night with me, are you?” I asked my friends.
“You shouldn’t be alone tonight,” Naomi insisted, nudging a margarita in my direction.
“Ilikebeing alone,” I argued. Being alone meant not having to pretend to be okay. Being alone meant not having to be messy and emotional in front of any witnesses.
“You’re welcome to be alonewithus,” Lina announced.
“I thought you’d be on my side.”
Her smile was sharp and her eyes sparkled. “You have no one to blame but yourself. You and Naomi forced me to give up my lone she-wolf ways.”
“Technically, first prize in that endeavor goes to Nash. But Sloane and Ididearn the silver medal,” Naomi agreed.
“So you’re saying I’m trapped in this codependent circle?” I asked, picking up the proffered margarita.
Lina nodded. “Pretty much. You might as well surrender now.”
The pizzadidsmell good. And it would probably be rude if I didn’t have at least a little tequila. “Well, since you’re already here…”
Lina dumped two slices onto a paper plate and held it out. I took it and sneaked a warm, cheesy bite while my friends plated their own meals.
The doorbell chimed again.
“Go away,” I called.
But I was drowned out by Naomi and Lina cheerfully yelling, “Come in!”
We were all halfway to the door when it opened and Naomi’s best friend, Stefan Liao, and his biker barber boyfriend, Jeremiah, strolled inside. With his sweater and blazer, Stef looked as if he’d just finished a photo shoot for a New England old-money fashion label. Jeremiah, on the other hand, looked more like a hot, hipster biker with a man bun, scarred boots, tight denim, and a David Bowie T-shirt.
“Ladies. I see you’ve started without us,” Stef said.
“I told you the dress code was casual,” Naomi teased.
