Chapter 1 #2
And let out a huge sigh of relief when I see Marina at her usual spot by the front windows, typing away on her laptop, sipping on what I’m going to guess is a matcha latte with coconut milk and a splash of agave syrup.
“Hey,” she says to me with bright eyes, flashing me that big smile of hers. She’s so self-conscious about it, which I think is a bloody shame. No one should ever hold back on their smile—it’s like holding back on joy—and Marina’s is beautiful and kind. It’s the one thing that puts my heart at ease.
“Hey,” I tell her, slumping down into the seat across from her.
“Uh oh,” she says, snapping her laptop shut, the cover adorned with stickers from her company—Palm Trees & Honey Bees—and gives me her full attention. “What’s wrong?”
She’s used to this from me. Sometimes, like today, there is actually something wrong, but other times I’m just trapped in my head and being a moody little arse.
She’s usually the person to get me out of it.
Not to say she doesn’t give me shit, because she does, but she’s a lot more forgiving and intuitive than my other mates.
“I broke up with Simone.”
“Noooo,” she says with a harsh gasp. “Why? Why did you do that?”
I shrug. “I don’t love her.”
“Argh.” She leans back in her chair and stares dramatically at the ceiling, shaking her head so her long blonde hair goes flying around her face. “You idiot.”
“I’m not an idiot,” I say sharply, feeling defensive. “It had to be done.”
“But why?” She presses her fingers into the table and gives me a hard stare. “Why? It was, what, five months? You guys seemed so happy. It seemed like this could be it. How dare you? I was rooting for you. We were all rooting for you!”
I frown. “Who is we?”
“No one, it’s T-Banks from ANTM.”
“T-Pain and what?”
“America’s Next Top Model, Laz. Old school.”
I have no idea what she’s going on about. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t think this would annoy you.”
“Well, it does,” she says. “Obviously I’m your friend and I just want you to be happy. And you seemed happy.”
“Seemed is the operative word. And I’m quite happier now, believe me. I think Simone was…well, I don’t know, but it turns out she wasn’t quite the person I thought she was.”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all.”
“Hey, you’re supposed to be supportive.”
“I am supportive,” she says, picking up her mug and having a sip.
Today, her nails are holographic pink. Marina doesn’t wear a lot of makeup but she always has her nails done.
“But you’re thirty years old. And you have to ask yourself, at what point am I going to settle down?
Actually put in the legwork and follow through with a relationship?
Even Taylor Swift settled down eventually. ”
“Why on earth are you comparing me to Taylor Swift?” I mean, not that I mind, with her talent and money there are worse people to be compared to.
A small smile creeps across her lips. “Because you’re both a fan of using relationships and break-ups for creative material.”
Ouch.
“That’s not fair,” I tell her. “I don’t break up with people just so I have something to write about.”
She just stares at me.
“I don’t,” I protest. “If anything, it’s the other way around. They go after me because they think I’m going to write about them. That same thing just happened with Simone.”
“They go out with you because you’re hot,” she says, then quickly looks away. An adorable flush begins to spread on her cheeks.
“Did you just call me hot?” I goad her, wanting her face to get even redder.
She gives a half-shrug. “Maybe. And, well, you are. And you know it. And everyone knows it.”
“When the girls contact me, it’s in a DM and they don’t know what I look like.”
“You’re lucky. When I get a DM it’s dick pics,” she mumbles. Then she sighs. “And looks aren’t always important with women. They fall for you because of your words, because of the person you are inside. Or the person they think you are.”
“You just said it’s because I’m hot.”
“It’s everything. You’re the full package.
Believe me. There aren’t many guys out there that are funny, smart, hot, talented, and deep.
Every girl dreams about a guy writing beautiful prose about her.
Why do you think historical romances are so popular?
They want that Mr. Darcy whispering sweet nothings or penning out long and emotional love letters. They think that’s what you offer them.”
“I don’t really.”
“I know that,” she says. “I know you’re completely insufferable. But they don’t. They’re in love with the idea of you.”
“Well, I don’t know how to fix that. And I don’t know if I should. After all, I broke up with Simone. It wasn’t the other way around.”
“You could fix it…” she says and then trails off, her bright blue eyes caught in some kind of tangent.
Part of me wants to press the issue, if not just to hear her opinion. But the other part wants me to push on. There’s nothing in my life that needs fixing.
“Anyway,” I tell her, “I’m not Taylor Swift, thank you very much. And what happened with Simone was a shame, but what can I do? Would you rather me stick it out with someone just for the sake of sticking it out? If you don’t love the person, what’s the point? You’re just leading them on.”
She nods, rubbing her lips together. “You’re right. I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Better luck next time.” She pauses. “Please don’t tell me you already have someone else lined up.”
Well…last week at Magic 8 Ball’s show in Burbank, there was a cute girl who caught my eye. Gave me her number.
Marina squints. “Don’t tell me it’s that girl from the show last week.”
I raise my palms in defense. “I’m telling you nothing. But yes, maybe it’s her. Maybe this fashion blogger or whatever you call them online.”
“You’re unbelievable,” she says. “Okay, how about for once you just stay single for a week? Just a week. Don’t contact either of those girls, don’t contact anyone. Just…be you. Alone.”
“No problem.”
“Yeah right,” she says under her breath. She turns her attention to her phone and presses the button so the time flashes on the screen. Her forehead creases and she looks to me with worried eyes.
“Hey, you don’t have any Ativan do you?” she asks, putting her palm out on the table like I’m a traveling pharmacist.
“Not on me, why?”
“I have a date tonight.”
I don’t know why I hate hearing the word date come from her lips, especially when she dates so often, but I do.
“What’s his name again?”
“David. David the doctor.”
“And what date is this?”
She purses her lips together comically and flutters them. “The third.”
I can’t help but smile. Poor Marina goes through this song and dance every single time. When she likes a guy, she never seems to get past the third date. When she doesn’t like them, it barely goes past one.
I don’t understand any of it. Marina is both gorgeous and cute, which is a brilliant combination.
She’s also smart, has a good figure (excellent tits and arse if I do say so myself), has her own business (albeit an unusual one), and is a lot of fun.
My friend Frank says he’d be all over her if she wasn’t so damn awkward, but the funny thing is, I think her awkwardness only makes her more endearing.
And honestly, I wouldn’t let someone like Frank touch her anyway.
It probably helps that Marina and I get on like Donkey Kong.
I’ve known her for four years now after meeting through my stepsister Jane, who now lives in Boston, and not only did we bond over a love of music, cult cinema, Police Squad, and Jeff Goldblum, but we get each other when many people don’t.
It’s strange that in a city so big and full of so many different people, finding the right friends is hard.
“It will be fine,” I tell her, though honestly, I do feel this twinge of victory every time one of her dates doesn’t work out.
I know. I’m a terrible friend—maybe it’s just a matter of misery loving company.
I want her happy but I also feel like it’s the two of us against the world, the two of us against everyone else in a happy relationship.
“The third date is now becoming larger than life,” she says, and then gulps down the rest of her tea, leaving a faint green almond milk mustache on her lips. “It’s do or die.”
I smile at the sight of her and lean across the table, reaching out and wiping my thumb along her upper lip. She stills with widened blue eyes as I remove the excess foam and then lick it off my thumb.
“Did you seriously just do that?” she squeaks.
I shrug. She’s blushing again. I guess that was kind of weird but if I can’t be odd around her, who can I be?
I push past it. “Do you actually like this guy?”
“Yes,” she says emphatically. “He’s cute. He’s smart. I think we really have a good thing going.”
I want to ask if she’s slept with him, but I never have the nerve to find out and she never divulges that information. We may be good friends, but there are still some boundaries between us. Apparently, those boundaries don’t involve licking foam from her face.
“I need an espresso,” she says, getting to her feet.
“Bumble, you said you needed an Ativan, not coffee.”
She dismisses me with a wave of her hand. “You stay out of it.” Then she gives me a playful glare when she realizes I called her Bumble.
I don’t always use her nickname, but it’s a good one. Marina loves bees but she’s more of a bumble bee than a honey bee. She doesn’t sting, though she’ll tell you it’s because she’s big and fluffy and acts like a bumbling fool. Girls always have a knack for twisting every nickname around.
She orders her espresso, slams it back at the counter, and then gets an Americano to go, coming back to the table to gather up her stuff.
“Marina,” I say patiently as I eye her drink. “You know how you get when you have too much caffeine.”
She dismisses me with a smile and a shake of her head, her blonde hair catching the light spilling in from the window. “I need it.”
“You need something all right. Anyway, good luck with your date. Lucky number three this time.”
“Thanks,” she says brightly. A little too brightly. The caffeine is hitting her hard. Thankfully David is a doctor.
She slings her messenger bag over her shoulder and leaves.
My eyes can’t help but rest on her arse as she goes, hips swinging from side to side.
She’s wearing her “butt exploiting” jeans as she calls them, and they show off every firm curve.
For a second, I feel a tiny bit jealous of David the doctor.
Then it passes, as it always does.
I get a coffee, take out my phone, and start looking through my Instagram DMs.