Page 35 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

His gaze drops to my chest. I’ve given him permission to do so, and he takes full advantage, mapping the curves fast at first and then slowly. A blush warms my cheeks.

“Well?” I say.

He wets his lips, letting his gaze drop again to where I’m sure he can see the full, unobstructed teardrop outline and the obvious peak of my nipple through the soft fabric of my top.

“Somewhat. Noticeable.”

I groan.

“Fuck okay. I’ll deal with it when we get to shore.” I eye the row of brightly colored canoes already meeting up at the dock. “You think we won, at least?”

“I mean this in an entirely professional and not personal way – but you’re literally touching yourself in front of me, and you think I’ve got enough unoccupied brain power right now to know if we won?”

When I cut him a look, he shakes his head with a smile, dragging his attention back out to the water. “All right. Come on. Only one way to find out.”

9.

We make a slow trek back towards the boardwalk, and we’re one of the last boats to dock. An event coordinator meets us with a bucket labeled with our team number, and we load our rubber ducks into it before hauling ourselves out. They won’t announce the winners for a while, in an effort to keep everyone milling around, talking and buying cocktails.

Down the boardwalk, I spot a wavy-haired guy I would love to never see again, wearing a big smile and a pair of shorts that are a touch too short. Unfortunately, he also spots me. This guy is bad news anytime, but especially in my current situation. He hits on me at these events every, single, year. He also prides himself on being my fiercest competition. (Did I mention he also suffers from an overinflated sense of self?) I can see him making excuses to the trio he’s currently talking with, and my mind shifts into panic. I curse under my breath.

“You okay?” Quentin asks.

I fold my arms across my chest in a way that I hope looks casual and try to figure out which direction the restrooms are. “That guy in the coral shorts, your two o’clock? I cannot talk to him right now.” Read also: ever.

Quentin takes quick stock of the situation and gives me a nod.

“Bathrooms are that way,” he says. “I’ll run interference and grab you a drink. Meet you on the lawn in ten?”

Against my better judgment, I say yes. We agree to meet at my picnic blanket before I make a beeline to the bathrooms. Once inside, I grab a handful of paper towels and attempt to dab the sweat from the sticky side of the cup.

Surely I can salvage this, I think. The longer I mess with it, the more I think perhaps I was wrong. As I’m attempting – unsuccessfully – to reattach it to my boob in a way that doesn’t make me look slightly lopsided, a familiar face comes out of the nearest stall.

“Heidi Krupp,” she grins.

“Mariah Wilson,” I smile. For a moment, I attempt to stop prodding my breasts. “Wow. This isn’t what it looks like.”

She raises an eyebrow. “It looks like the Superbowl Halftime Show, circa 2004.”

I laugh, tossing the useless cup to the edge of the sink in front of me. “Not my best fashion choice.”

“I hoped I’d see you here,” she says, washing her hands. “I saw the article. It was amazing, though I’d expect nothing less. Have those idiots at Freeman Maxwell figured out you’re too good for them, yet?”

Mariah has never been discrete about her displeasure with what she feels is the outdated, corporate hierarchy at FML. She runs an employee-owned law firm in midtown. She’s been after me since we worked together on a community outreach clinic for emancipated minors a few years back. It’s become our running joke, how often I turn her down.

“Oh, you know me. I’m still fighting the good fight,” I offer.

She smiles. “Well, when you’re done playing their game, you know where to find me.”

When she exits, I finally peel the other adhesive cup from my chest and toss them both in the trashcan by the door. I press my boobs together in the mirror and watch them bounce apart, trying not to be too hard on myself when they settle into their natural position. Honestly, I’ve got pretty great boobs. But they’re also boobs I didn’t plan to display to half the people I know – and my cute co-counsel.

Resigned to my fate and hoping the waning daylight works in my favor, I find my way to the small quilted blanket where I left my picnic basket and pop open a container of soft pretzels. They’re homemade, of course, and they smell amazingly nostalgic, like hanging out at the food court in the mall as a pre-teen, when you’ve just spent the Christmas money your grandmother sent you on exactly two graphic tees from American Eagle and a bottle of lotion from Bath & Body Works, where you devoted half an hour to trying to decide between Cucumber Melon and Sweet Pea, as if it was the most important decision you’d make that year.

Yes, those kind of pretzels, but better.

I dig around, searching out the beer cheese. If I know Meg, I know there is beer cheese. I unload four containers of fancy crackers, crudite, and cut strawberries before locating it. I also find two sets of utensils, matching plastic plates, and restaurant-quality dinner napkins. My chest clenches, because my best friend is truly amazing, and I can only begin to deserve her on my very best of days. If I show my love by knowing I’d take a bullet for her before staggering over bleeding to apprehend the attacker, she shows hers by feeding me spectacular food that she knows I’ll crave for the rest of my days, and I am here for it.

“This is quite the spread for a girl who showed up solo,” Quentin says, passing me the promised drink.

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