“I love you,” Jessa says, kissing Callie on top of her head. Sibling affection.
“I want to be like you,” Callie tells me, laying her head on the bar, slurring a bit. Maybe she should’ve eaten her enchiladas before the third shot of tequila. “No marriage, no house. Just hours of hanging out with reality TV stars, dinner at the Ivy, dancing at the Roxy.” Callie is super well informed on how Hollywood would’ve run back in the 80s.
“More like fourteen hour days with no sex life,” I say, nudging Suze. She laughs and nudges back. Look at us. A pair of professional lady nudgers. Callie blows a raspberry as she bites into a lime wedge. Heh. Raspberry and lime. Fruit salad.
Okay, so maybe I’m a little tipsy too.
“You’ve got to help me out here,” Callie sighs. “I have to live vicariously through somebody. Usually all I have is Jessa.” She nods at her younger sister.
“This bar has a terrible ambiance,” Jessa says, waving her hands. “I sense that someone died here. No, a tree. A mighty oak gave its life, pulled from its roots so this restaurant could be built.” She takes a bite of nachos. “Mmm. The guacamole is good.”
“I don’t have much going on,” I tell Callie, trying to get back on topic.
“Crushes? Smooches? Feelings? Anything, Laurel.” Callie sighs, rubbing her forehead. “Oh my God, I’ve become that sad, sex-crazed housewife. All that’s left is for me to start popping pills and trying to seduce the mailman. How did this happen?”
“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Suze says lamely, trying to add something to the madness. She widens her eyes and gives me a ‘do something’ look. I sigh.
“Well, there’s this guy. He’s, um, tall,” I say, trying to think of the vaguest possible terms with which to describe Flint. Tall. Drives a car. Lives in a house. No, house is too specific. Lives on planet Earth.
“Hot?” Callie asks. Already, she’s droolingly captivated.
“Hottest,” I say without thinking. Oh, damn. I think I’ve tipped her off, but she doesn’t even blink. That’s the good thing about sisters; they only see their studly brothers as snot-nosed little brats. “We, er, had a quick thing back in LA. But it’s over now.” Suze looks at me, that knowing light in her eyes. She keeps it to herself, like a good friend, and takes another sip of margarita.
“Piece of advice: don’t try to get him back. If someone doesn’t want to be with you, there’s nothing you can do about it.” Callie sighs. “Lord, then you could maybe give the same advice to my brother. He’s still pining after this one girl something awful.”
“Callie,” Jessa says. It’s a warning. “Flowers.”
I don’t know what that code word means, but right now I don’t care.
“Flint wants someone back?” My heart starts pounding. Maybe he told Callie about me in the vaguest terms. You know? She has hair. She lives in the United States. But my stomach drops when Callie says,
“Yeah, his old girlfriend. Charlotte.” She yawns and stretches. “Not to gossip, but that boy had it so bad.” Callie gets another shot of tequila and takes it without salt or lime. Okay. Maybe we want to close the tab.
“Like how bad?” I say it so casual and cool. At least, I think I do. Suze keeps looking at me, her eyes huge.
“He was going to propose.” Callie smacks her lips, enjoying the Cuervo. “Had our mother’s ring and everything. They met at Columbia, and Charlotte followed him home. At first I thought it was true love—you know, she gave up her world for him—but then she got an offer to go back to New York, and she took it like that.” Callie snaps. “Flint didn’t want to go. That was all it took. Tells you everything you need to know.”
“Does it?” I say, unintentionally bristling a little. The mention of Charlotte unnerves me, sure. All I can see is this leggy blonde Amazon with a pencil skirt and a pink cashmere sweater. But she was following her career ambitions, and Flint didn’t fit in with that. Am I supposed to hate on another woman for choosing to work?
But the fact that Flint’s still so hung up on her…I have another shot. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, staggering to the bathroom while trying not to fall down.
“Maybe we should call it a night,” Suze whispers. We look over at Callie, who is now standing next to another table singing very loudly about the girl from Ipanema. The manager is heading our way, a big, wide smile telling us that we should find another bar.
“Don’t worry,” Jessa says, putting her cell back into her hemp shoulder bag. “I called Flint. He’s on his way.”