“Sure.”
I return to my table, and a few seconds later a server comes out to take our food order.
I don’t see Mark the rest of the night.
Kelly Byrne’s Ex List: Version Two
Jack Chance: Pleasant dinner, followed by worst. kiss. ever. Was he always that grabby? Was his tongue always so much like a dead slug? I can’t kiss that for the rest of my life. I just can’t.
Next up: Joey Russo, I’m comin’ for ya . . .
December 17, Sunday Morning
The next morning, I do what any good daughter would do and dutifully “like” each and every photo my mom posted on Facebook. Of their hotel room. At the Seattle airport.
All twenty-one of them.
Even the one of the bathroom soap that apparently “smells divine.”
Then I text both parents telling them I love them, to have a great time, and to post more pictures!
Considering their cruise leaves this morning, I think it’s safe to say that the photos will improve from here on out . . . I hope. But if all I get is toiletry photos, I won’t mind as long as they’ve having a good time.
Daughter duty fulfilled, I turn my attention to the rest of my Facebook feed, smiling at all of the babies-with-Santa photos. I’m definitely at that age when more and more of my friends are having kids. Most of my high school girls still live here in Haven, so I’ll get to coo over their babies in person. But I went to college in Boston, and my sorority sisters are scattered all over the country. Social media’s a must for staying in touch with that set of friends.
I’m about to shut my laptop when my eye catches on a picture that makes me do a triple take to make sure I’m seeing it right. Eventually I realize that what I thought I saw is in fact what I’m seeing.
“That bitch,” I seethe, blood pressure skyrocketing.
It’s not a word I use lightly, as I’m all for girls supporting other girls, but there are some occasions that call for it, and this is one of them.
This time I do shut my laptop—nay, slam it—and I’m out the door and charging across my backyard, Rigby barking happily at my feet.
Whoops. I realize when I’m halfway across the lawn that it snowed a little bit last night, and I’m still in my PJs and red fuzzy slippers. I yelp-hop the rest of the way, Rigby really getting into it, thinking we’re playing.
I give a quick knock at Mark’s back door, then charge right in because I need my wet slippers off, stat.
Rigby dashes into the kitchen ahead of me, his cute little feet leaving snowy paw prints in his wake. I start to charge after the dog in my bare feet, then skid to a halt when I see my best friend sitting at his kitchen table staring at me with a bemused expression.
“Oh. Hey.” I give him an awkward nod.
He glances down at my bare feet, which are practically turning blue. “Really?”
“I was in a hurry. Can I borrow some socks?”
I dash up the stairs to his bedroom before giving him a chance to respond. Huh. Mark makes his bed on Sunday mornings.
Interesting.
I’ve been in his bedroom before, but mostly just after he bought the house and I was snooping. I’ve never had much reason since.
It’s very . . . guy-ish. There’s an old-looking dresser, a big bed with a navy duvet cover. Two functional pillows, and not a throw pillow in sight. A shame. A few teal polka dots would be just the thing to brighten the room.
I open the upper right drawer. Whoops. Boxers, nope. I shut that and go with the top left drawer. Socks. Bingo.
I grab a fuzzy-looking green pair, then blink in surprise when I see what’s nestled at the bottom of the drawer. Well, not so much nestled as covered in socks, but still, it’s there.
My Magic 8 ball.
I carefully lift it and give it a shake, smiling when I see it still works.
Technically, it’s not my Magic 8 ball. As established, I already have two of my own, one for work, one for home. Three, if you count the one on my key chain. Don’t laugh. The Magic 8 ball has helped me through some major life dilemmas. College decisions, what to wear, breakups . . .
Anyway, this one was a gift, and I thought he’d sent it to Goodwill a long time ago.
“Does Mark ever use you?” I ask the ball before giving it another shake.
Very doubtful.
Huh. Yeah, can’t say I didn’t see that coming.
I put it away and hop into the socks before heading back downstairs.
Mark’s put a towel on the floor beside his chair, and Rigby’s curled up, chewing his favorite penguin toy, which resides at Mark’s house.
It’s a cozy picture, and one I’d like to think I fit into. I pour myself a cup of coffee from his pot, top off his mug, then sit across the table from him.
“When’d you get the glasses?” I ask, cupping my mug and studying him over the steam.
He gives me a look over the top rim of them. “Few months ago. They’re reading glasses. Doing the books gave me a headache.”
“I like them.”
“I’m so glad,” he says, leaning back in the chair as he tugs the glasses off and sets them on top of his notebook. “Since I was just wearing them for fun, and not at all because I was trying to place orders for next week.”
I wince. “Sorry. I forget that just because you don’t work the brunch shift doesn’t mean you get to take Sunday off.”
He narrows his eyes slightly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, remembering the reason I dashed over here, and stalling for time.
He looks down at his mug, picks it up, and waits.
I hesitate for only a second, instinct telling me that he probably doesn’t want to hear about my disastrous kiss with Jack, but I need to talk about it. And yeah, it’s a better topic to save for my girlfriends, but they don’t live next door, so . . .
“So, my mistletoe test with Jack.”
He closes his eyes. “Nope.”
“It was . . . well, it was conclusive, but not in the good way.”
He sighs in resignation and opens his eyes. “Meaning?”
There’s a plate of half-eaten toast on the table, and I pull it toward me, helping myself to a corner of buttered sourdough. “Eh. Well, we kissed . . . and . . .” I take a bite of the bread. “What are those little chickens you serve at the restaurant sometimes? But they’re not called chickens.”
“Cornish game hens?”
“Right. Those.” I point the toast at him. “Anyway, the second Jack put his hands on my waist, all I could think was that his hands felt like Cornish game hens. Like ham hands, except . . . little chicken hands.”
“You’ve decided he wasn’t the one because his hands are like Cornish game hens.”
“Yup.”
For a second Mark only stares at me. Then he rubs his temples. “How is it we’ve been friends for a decade, and you can still surprise me?”
“Best friends,” I specify.
He merely shakes his head.
I drop the toast back on the plate, because I’ve suddenly lost my appetite as I remember why I came over in the first place. “I need to talk to you about something. Your love life. Not mine.”
“What about it?”