Page 51 of Harper's Holiday Romance
I need proof.
Julia
Butt goals.
(Attached: photo of bum in the bathroom mirror)
Me
It’s a convincing argument.
She wasn’t kidding. The pair of blue chino shorts were tight enough I would question her ability to walk in them, but she assured me they were a wonderful stretchy cotton blend. She made me feel giddy in an inexperienced youthful way. The kind of giddy that had me grinning beside the pool. I was sun-soaked, lethargic from the lack of sleep, and smiling at Julia’s use of emojis.
Did I have a crush on Julia Hanlow?
It sure felt like it. I had this burning desire to see her again. I tried to relax, but every thirty seconds I would examine my surroundings looking for her. Did it feel more intense because she was unattainable? She lived 3399 miles away—yes, I Googled it. It wasn’t just a car ride up the M62.
I didn’t get on the plane in the hopes of being swept up in some time-sensitive holiday romance, but Billie certainly encouraged it. The no strings attached element of a holiday fling did make it light-hearted. There would be no arduous permanence that so often caused me to shrivel up in a cold sweat state of trepidation at home.
This could work, I thought.
I watched the pool attendant drag an umbrella from God knows where to the far left of the pool where a very unappreciative couple sat waiting.
I sat forwards to offer my assistance.
“Shall I help him?” I asked.
Billie pulled on the back of my bikini bottoms. “Sit down.”
“He looks like he’s struggling.”
“It’s his job, Harp. He’s being tipped for a reason,” Billie said.
I watched him reluctantly. The couple didn’t tip. I hated that.
The poor guy had just lugged a large pole as heavy as me in thirty-five-degree heat while wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and some khaki pants, and they couldn’t even give him a tip. They immediately ordered two sets of drinks and some pool snacks. Also, without a tip.
“I don’t like them.” I sulked.
“I don’t think they care.” Billie laughed.
I would’ve cared. I also would’ve tipped.
“Will you stop itching like a dog with fleas?” Billie scolded Sarah.
“I can’t help it! Everything is so pissing itchy,” Sarah said whilst scratching so hard on the top of her foot I expected chunks of flesh and blood to appear under her fingernails. The infamous heat rash was travelling to every available part of skin on Sarah’s body. There was only so much the twenty-five-dollar bottle of chamomile lotion could do. She moved to her knuckles next. The redness spreading along her index finger.
“It looks painful. Hold on.” I ran to the bathroom, returning with a complimentary hand towel soaked in cold water.
“Applythis. It’ll help soothe it.”
“See, this is why you’re my best friend.” Sarah winked. Billie reached over the sun lounger and began slapping Sarah’s left leg repeatedly.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sarah yelled.
“I’m helping. Everyone knows slapping an irritated area stops it from itching.”
“If you hit my leg one more time, I’ll throw you in the pool.” Sarah hissed. I saw Billies face light up. She considered that a challenge.
