15. This Isn’t It
This Isn’t It
MARY
“Okay, so what the actual fuck?” Alicia demanded as Betty departed to speak with another group.
I was so focused on the sway of Betty’s hips I barely registered what Alicia said. The dress looked great on her. It made sense how she always navigated life in heels like a pro. She probably had to go to princess school.
“What?” I played dumb.
“So, are we going to talk about how you two are shooting daggers or what the fuck happened with Princess Betty?” Alicia followed up. “Babes, this isn’t it. You need to come clean.”
“I have nothing to say.”
In truth, I had everything to say but saying it would make it feel worse. Seeing Betty looking so composed and good drove home the fact that we could never have been. It emboldened my thinking this was for the best. But if so, why did it still pain me to see her?
“Nothing you didn’t already write in “Balcony”, you mean?” Clarice asked. “Giiiiirl. What the actual fuck indeed?”
I shook my head. “Look, I found out who she was the morning after. I looked her up. And… I mean… clearly. She fucking lied—”
“She never lied.”
“A lie through omission is still a lie, Alicia,” I grumbled.
“Personally, when I was single, I would have been glad to look the other way to hit that,” Barry said.
Clarice smacked him upside the head. “Don’t be a fucking pig.”
“What? I would have, too,” Alicia said.
“To my knowledge, she’s never dated women,” I kept my voice low. “I am not interested in navigating her experimentation phase.”
“And how do you know that? Was she like a cold fish? Did she tell you that?” Alicia demanded.
No. She was perfect. It was like she knew my body for years.
“Do you think everyone she dates is announced to the public?” Alicia asked. “I mean, think about it. Her brother didn’t even confirm he was dating Princess Ingrid until they were basically engaged.”
“How do you know that?” Clarice asked.
“I am a royal watcher and, believe it or not, everyone in Scandinavia has royals except for Iceland,” Alicia said proudly.
I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “Iceland is not in Scandinavia. For the umpteenth—”
“You’ve angered the Viking,” Barry teased.
“You should at least ask her what her situation is. Wouldn’t it make sense to be like, ‘are you for real’ rather than judging it?”
“It’s over now,” I said.
A face I didn’t want to see appeared in my periphery.
“Not if you don’t want it to be,” Alicia said. “You could grovel.”
Max Mixxon—née Mikkelson—appeared with his group, all smiles, like he fucking owned the place.
“Cunt,” Barry muttered.
“Ignore them,” Alicia said. “We got this.”
“4l?t in da house!” Max shouted as if he wasn’t a sixty-something corporate shill.
“As if anyone fucking cares,” Clarice murmured.
Max practically pulled a tiny teenaged Alia around. But within an inch of her was always the DJ who made her famous, Jason K. Watching the way he hovered predatorily sent a shiver down my spine.
“Are they together?” Alicia whispered. “What is he? Thirty?”
“Twenty-nine, according to his wiki,” Clarice answered. “Jason K likes younger ladies. Eleven years. Ick.”
I looked at Betty, the woman I had almost a decade and a half on.
“Oh, c’mon, she’s a grown up,” Alicia read my mind. “Just remind yourself that if you were a dude, this would be the expectation. You’re good, babes. But you need to grovel.”