Chapter Fourteen
LUCY
‘I thought you were just gonna hit that and move on?’ Kim griped.
‘You’re such a poet,’ Lucy deadpanned.
Lucy and Kim sat jawing under the hairdryer chairs in the Lusso’s salon like a couple of old grannies in a sitcom. Lucy’s head was cocooned in a hive of plastic wrap. Kim was foiled like she was trying to pick up ham radio with her hair follicles.
Meanwhile, Chloe and the bridesmaid crew were fussed over by a gaggle of aestheticians. Being gleefully trimmed, glossed, highlighted, and generally gilded like the gorgeous young lilies they were.
Kim nudged, ‘Well?’
‘I was. I am. Probably,’ Lucy dithered. There had been a moment there, after she’d said no, that had felt a lot like relief .
‘No’ was easy. Comfortable. Safe. Like a cozy sweater.
‘But the look on his face, Kim. I’m telling you; it was priceless.
’ Lucy tried to recreate it in her mind.
Tried to channel the sensation of seeing Nicky-fucking-Broome want her like a drowning man wants oxygen.
‘I know it’s twisted, and probably the sign of a serious mental issue.
A God complex or clinical narcissism or something, maybe?
But rejecting him felt like … like winning .
The Super Bowl. Or an Oscar. If I could bottle that shit, I’d be a billionaire. And women would rule the earth.’
‘Consider me your first guinea pig when you figure it out,’ Kim quipped.
‘Done,’ Lucy replied. She closed her eyes and tried again to capture those Badass Bitch feelings that had sizzled in her veins and made her feel young again, and in control.
‘But you’re not feeling, like, feelings ? Right?’ Kim’s words sliced through Lucy’s revelry. Her tone was light, but after decades of friendship, Lucy could sense the undercurrent of worry just beneath the surface.
‘No,’ Lucy replied reflexively. ‘It’s more like the echo of feelings. From far off and a long time ago. Not the real thing. Don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worried,’ Kim lied. ‘Why would I worry?’ Then a moment later: ‘Should I worry?’
Lucy patted Kim on the hand. ‘I’m fine. It’s fine. He’s just a boy,’ Lucy said, offering the phrase that had practically been the mantra of their youth. ‘Just. A. Boy.’