Page 463 of Not Over You

“I told her not to drink vodka. Didn’t I say that?” I whisper to Scarlett. That shit makes her weepy, and then we’re left dealing with sob story after sob story. Don’t get me wrong, I love my bestie to death, but the bitch needs to cull her past and keep her baby blues on the future. She was far too good for Johnny anyway. Fuck him and his limp noodle dick.

Scarlett shimmies off her jean jacket and hands it to me—careful to not let it touch the sticky table between us—before sliding down the booth towards Harper. Waves of golden locks frame her heart-shaped face like a perfect halo as she wraps a bronze arm around our intoxicated bestie. “Don’t say that babe, you’re not a loser. Just because you can’t curse to save your life, doesn’t mean you won’t find the perfect guy out there waiting for you. You’re gorgeous inside and out; don’t let Johnny and Nicollete bring you down. She’s been envious of you from day one, and he’s a tool who only knows how to use and mentally abuse.”

“You’re far better off without either of them in your life. Think of all the time you’re saving without having to worry about another person. How far ahead in work are you right now?” Lucy asks.

That gets Harper’s attention and she bolts upright, all traces of sadness wiped away. She pitches to the right, nearly toppling off the wicker seat she’s perched on. Scarlett reacts quicker than any of us, catching her and wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her steady.

“I have all of the programming done for our current project and am halfway done with the next. There were a few hiccups, but I’m seriously bossing it. Heck, the next project hasn’t even been announced company-wide yet, so kudos to me. And, I found this super neat way of expediting my coding in Python so it isn’t taking me forever and a day.”

The proud smile Harper wears as she continues to recount the ways she’s killing it at work is both endearing and hilarious, especially because it’s rather lopsided. I only pick up a few things from her spiel, mostly because I’m shit at tech. Put a camera in my hands and I can name every component and its use. Show me the back end of a website and I’m a dunce with a capital D. Thank god I have Harper to help with my website or I’d still be selling prints through Facebook marketplace.

“Okay bitches, I love you, but I’ve gotta jet. Tommi needs me to open the shop tomorrow morning,” Jesse says, pulling out cash and handing it to Luce. “Do you need me to help wrangle this one into an Uber?” she asks, pointing at Harper.

“Rude. I’m fine, I can stand and walk on my own, see?”

Thud.

“Oww, why would you guys let me walk on my own? You know I’m drunk, what kind of best friends are you?” Harper moans from the wood planked floor.

One would think it’s impossible to trip wearing flats on an even surface—leave it to Harper to prove that theory wrong. But hey, at least she’s still wearing her work slacks so her lady bits are concealed. As for the cashmere top pushed up to her bra? Well, that thing was ruined a few drinks ago when she spilled vodka down it in a truly moving rendition of “Never Enough” from The Greatest Showman.

A bubble of laughter tears from my throat at the memory. We’re definitely getting kicked outta this restaurant. Cliff’s Edge leans towards a very chill atmosphere, but I’m not so sure they’re this laid back.

Lucy scrambles out of her seat, leaving the cash for our bill on the table, as she helps Harper up off the floor. All while Scarlett, Jesse, and I are doubled over, struggling to contain ourselves. You have to understand, Harper West is as straight laced as it comes. I can count on one hand the number of times she’s been drunk in the last ten years that we’ve known each other.

Pulling out my phone, I snap a few shots of them staggering towards the exit, getting a particularly amazing one of Harper with her ass in a giant potted palm tree and Luce—her usually perfectly styled brown bob flying all over—working to wrench her free. I can’t wait to print these and put them in our memory book. They’ll be a nice addition next to the photo Scarlett got of me tripping and falling face first into a thicket of poison ivy—good times. I still hear the Poison Ivy jokes on a weekly basis.

“Well babes, mama hen has Harpy covered so I’m gonna head out as well. See you bitches next Thursday? Jesse it’s your turn to pick the restaurant, don’t disappoint me,” I say, wrapping her and Scarlett in a tight squeeze.

“Love you!” I chirp as Jesse grumbles under her breath about picky-ass friends.

Scarlett’s phone chimes. “That’s our ride, let’s go, sourpuss,” she says, tugging Jesse towards the front exit.

I drop another twenty onto the table, giving the server a sheepish smile as she walks up to clean our mess. Fuck, I hope we don’t get banned from this place, it’s got the best food in Silverlake. Not wanting to give her time to bitch me out for our behavior, I scurry off towards the back parking lot. Normally, I would’ve ordered an Uber with the girls, but I was running late to our standing dinner this evening, so I had to drive from the gallery.

The slight breeze lifts the curls around my neck, tickling my heated skin. It’s a beautiful night in Los Angeles, the normal hustle and bustle has died down to soothing tones of late night city life. I slide into my Jeep and set my phone in the holder before starting the engine. My radio autotunes to Kiss-FM, and Billie Eilish’s Ocean Eyes plays through the speakers. Her voice is like liquid gold sliding over my senses—I fucking love it.

I’m tempted to hop onto the 101 and head north, letting the road take me where it may while Billie coos in my ears and the winds blows through my mess of red hair. It’s been too long since I drove just to drive. I love the freedom of having no destination and letting the road guide my path. Last time, I ended up in Pismo Beach, camping near the ocean for a few days. It was divine.

I’m stopped at a red light, only a few blocks from home, when the DJ comes on the radio. “It’s nine-thirty, time for our last Cinco De Mayo giveaway of the day, and boy is it a doozy. How does two nights and three days at an all inclusive resort in Puerto Vallarta sound? Caller twenty will win round-trip airfare from LAX, two nights at Villa Del Palmar Beach Resort and Spa, and a complimentary cabana for the weekend. The lines are open, good luck.”

Holy shit. Three free days in Mexico? Fuck. Yes.

I throw my Jeep into park and yank my phone from its holder, dialing the toll-free number I know by heart. Come on, please let me win. Please, please, please. My heart is galloping in my chest. I love a good contest and have been blessed to win quite a few, but nothing recent. It’s like my luck has run out—if I believed in that sort of thing.

“Kiss-FM, your caller nine.” Click.

“Shit.” I hang up and try again. This time I’m met with that irritating busy dial tone. No! Don’t do this to me. I call back another three times before it finally rings … and rings and rings. My chances of winning are slipping away like sand through an hourglass. Just when I’m ready to hang up, figuring they’ve found caller twenty by now, the DJ answers.

“Kiss-FM, what’s your name and where are you from?”

“Hi, oh my god, am I caller twenty? Please for the love of all things holy and bright tell me I’m caller twenty!”

The guy chuckles, and says, “What’s your name darling?”

Oh shit, he already asked for that, didn’t he? “Rumor, and I live in West Hollywood.”

A horn blares behind me and I startle, having forgotten I’m sitting parked at a now green light. I put my phone back in the holder and throw my Jeep into drive so I can pull off to the side of the road.

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