Even two full weeks later, the memory of that night still burns through me like wildfire — singing my nerve endings, quickening my breath, sending my heart into a pounding, painful rhythm inside my chest.
Striving for composure, I take a sip of my drink — a sinfully sweet tequila-based concoction the bartender at Lolita whipped up for me — and eye my best friend, Delilah “Lila” Sinclair, across the table. Strawberry-blonde head bowed, plush bottom lip trapped between her mega-white teeth, she’s totally concentrated on the cellphone in her hands. Not even attempting to listen to me.
“Apparently, he has Parker’s key to my place.” I forge on, pathetically determined to share my story with the girl who, as my best friend, is supposed to give a damn about this stuff. Or, you know, at the very least pretend to give a damn. “And he refused to give it back. Total jackass.”
“Mmm,” she murmurs distractedly. “Totally.”
“Lila?”
“Yeah?” A secret smile plays on her lips as her fingers tap out another text message.
“Did you hear me?”
Her eyes dart up to mine for a fraction of a second. “Nate came. Has Parker’s key. Total jackass.” She rolls her eyes like I’m the one being inconsiderate. “I’m listening, Phoebe. Jeeze.”
Before I’ve had time to respond, her eyes fall back to the screen and she’s typing again.
I fight the urge to toss my drink at her.
Lila’s been my best friend since… forever. I don’t even remember meeting her. I just know she’s been there through it all — every bad hair day and broken heart, every embarrassing moment and important milestone. Twenty odd years, three graduations (four, if you count pre-school), countless petty fights, so many shared secrets it’s a wonder we still have anything to talk about… and here we are. Still friends, after all this time. Even if she does drive me crazy on a regular basis. Like right now, when she’s blatantly tuning out every word of the story she begged to hear only minutes ago.
I take another sip and try again. “Anyway, I told him to get the hell out of my house.”
She doesn’t respond. I watch her fingers move again.
Tap, tap, tap.
Frustration stirs to life in my veins. “And then…” I drop my voice to a low, sultry whisper and lean across the table. “I pulled my dress up over my head, told him I was a virgin, and asked him to teach me like Lexi did to Sloan back in the good old Grey’s Anatomy days, before Shonda went completely off the rails and killed all my favorite characters.”
“Mmm.”
My voice goes so breathy it could make a porn star blush. “So, he threw me down on the floor and ravaged me within an inch of my life.”
“Mhm.” Tap, tap, tap. “That’s nice, Phoebe.”
“Now, I’m pregnant with his love child. If it’s a girl, I’m thinking we’ll name her Lila.” I tilt my head in contemplation. “Or something truly embarrassing, like Chrysanthemum. Or Lemon. Or maybe Butterfly. A healthy amount of humiliation is good for a kid growing up in this Everyone-Gets-A-Trophy generation, don’t you think?”
She finally looks up at me, features twisting in confusion. “Wait, what?”
“Never mind.” I pop open my clutch, grab a few bills, and lay them down on the tabletop. “I’m tired, Lila. Think I’m going to call it a night.”
“But we just got here!” Her voice is petulant and her big brown eyes are glossy, pleading. I recognize it instantly — her famous puppy-dog look. It’s broken the resolve of more men than I could ever count. “Don’t go. I want to hear about Knox.”
“No, you don’t.” I shake my head. “You want to text whatever new piece of man candy has caught your attention this week. And that’s fine. But I would rather eat a full serving of my own hair than sit here like an idiot, talking to myself while you do it.”
“Okay, okay! I’m sorry. Look — phone’s going away.” She shoves her cell in her purse, a tiny flicker of regret flashing over her features as she zips it closed, and lifts her eyes to mine. “See? All gone.”