Page 4 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“I hope that means you’re down to save me.”

The corner of my mouth twitches with the hint of a smile. Maybe it’s because I’m currently in the midst of my own complicated situation that I actually consider this.

“Which one is she?”

“The one who looks like she just married a man over sixty for his family fortune,” he says.

“Blonde with Botox?”

“Brunette with fake boobs.”

I see her now, lurking near the bar and casting us sideways glances with the hungry look of a cat-like predator, waiting for the perfect opportunity to move in. Whatever her motives are, they don’t seem to leave this guy with many chances of escape. Hers is the only path between us and the door.

“Ah,” I confirm. “She’s pretty.”

He laughs, feigning familiarity in case she’s watching – and she is in fact watching. Despite the smile, his eyes are desperate.

“That is a highly irrelevant detail, given my current situation.”

“Who am I supposed to be in this rescue scenario?” I ask him, slightly bemused. “Your fake girlfriend?”

“Do people really have fake girlfriends? Would that work?”

I give him another once over. With those dark shipwreck eyes, that boyish smile, and the dimple in his left cheek? No, his girlfriends are probably numerous, and quite real.

“For you? Probably not.”

“You don’t think I could get a girlfriend?”

I give him a knowing smile. “When’s the last time you actually introduced someone as your girlfriend?”

“Fair point,” he says. “So maybe just… my long lost friend? From college?”

“You mean the one you’ve been pining for since freshman year?”

He grins, looking at me now as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “That’s the one.”

I tip my head from side to side, mulling this over. “That could work.”

“It could,” he agrees. “As long as she’ll dance with me.” He glances nervously over his shoulder. “Soon.”

“Ah, but therein lies the problem,” I say. “She doesn’t dance.”

I can almost see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, a gulp so obvious it had to be his pride going down.

“Please.”

The look of the bar tells me it's going to be at least fifteen minutes before I’ve got a hope of getting a seat. And out of the corner of my eye I notice Teddy and Paolo glancing our way. I gather my nerve and take a single sip of the drink in my hand, confirming my suspicions as the flavors of tequila and Topo Chico mingle on my tongue.

“How’d you know I like spicy ranch water?” I ask, eyes narrowed.

“You’ve decided it’s not because I’m a creepy stalker?”

“Serial killer,” I correct. “And no, that’s not off the table. Do you want me to dance with you or not?”

“Guessing people’s preferred libation is my useless superpower,” he says, sweeping a hand nervously through his hair as his gaze flits across the bar. “And this is the one scenario in which I’m praying it’ll actually save my ass.”

For a long beat, I let him squirm. After one more swig of spicy seltzer, I snag him by the arm. “This song good?”

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