Shatter (True Believers #4)(46)
Author: Erin McCarthy

I hadn’t talked to her since before Christmas so she didn’t know. “I got one of my tutoring students pregnant.”

She dropped her phone. It clattered on the bartop. “What?”

“Yeah. And then I was like just starting to really dig her and think maybe everything would be okay, and then she miscarried.”

Miranda grabbed the lime wedge out of my drink for whatever random reason and started sucking on it, like she needed the sour kick to distract her. Her right eye twitched. Miranda had thick brown curls and oversized red glasses, which she matched her lipstick to. She always wore lacy clothes and florals, yet managed to not look too cutesy by adding something tough to the outfit. Tonight she had on a floral dress but combat boots and a motocross jacket. She peeled off her jacket like the whole notion of my disastrous life had her overheated.

“I’m sorry. For the whole thing.”

Feeling suddenly morose, I stared at the ice melting in my drink. “Me, too. Especially now that she’s blowing me off. I mean, I was giving her space because I thought she was upset, but then tonight she posted a video of her and her friends dancing.”

“Ah, so that’s why I got the sudden phone call.” She held out her hand. “Show me the video.”

“Why do you have your hand out?” I asked. “I’m not giving you my phone.”

She stuck her tongue out at me. “Just show me the video so I can assess the situation. You’re probably overreacting.”

“Fine.” I shifted on the stool and pulled my phone out of my pocket. The bar was dim and reasonably quiet, with only a dozen people in it. The atmosphere met my mood. Dark and exhausted. “See?” I held the screen up for her.

“D, she’s wearing pajamas and a tank top. This is hardly sexy wear.” Miranda turned my phone so the image got bigger. “Though I have to say, well done. She’s hot. I wouldn’t mind getting to know her better. Naked. Rawr.”

Really? I was just drunk enough to call her out. “You’re giving lesbians a bad name. You sound like a sexual predator. You are not exempt from the friend code, you know,” I said. “If you were a dude and said that to me, I would be pissed, and this isn’t any different. What if I said that about a chick you were dating?”

“I would probably punch you.”

“Exactly. So stop eye f**king my girlfriend.”

Miranda had been taking a sip of her gin and tonic and at my words, she sprayed gin all over the bar. “Oh my God, I’m dying.” She choked and laughed and choked some more.

I thumped her on the back, feeling more charitable toward her.

She held her hand up. “I’m okay. And fine, I’ll stop eye f**king your girlfriend. Who, I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware was your girlfriend.”

“I told you she was pregnant with my kid! I didn’t realize that meant she was fair game.”

“Okay, okay. I was just giving you shit because it’s not every day you use the word ‘girlfriend.’ Especially not when you’re discussing someone you just said you’re giving space to. There is a bit of a disconnect there, you have to admit.”

She had a point. “So maybe we never defined it in those words but we agreed not to see anyone else.”

“Ah. I see.” She hit PLAY and together we watched Kylie and her friends drop it down low and shake it. Then the wink. “It just looks like tipsy friends having good, clean fun. It’s not even particularly suggestive.”

“She’s been avoiding me,” I admitted. “I haven’t seen her in two weeks.”

“Oh.”

“She told me it was movie night, not vodka night.”

“So obviously you want to be with her.”

Was that obvious? “Yeah.”

“So poke a little. I’ll tag you here at the bar. Let her see you’re not sitting at home pining for her.”

I was just drunk enough that this made sense. “Okay.”

Miranda complied immediately and while we were talking about her love life, which was even more complicated than mine, my phone buzzed. “It’s a text from Kylie.” I was actually surprised, and okay, smug. So she wasn’t as eager to be away from me as she was acting if she was aware of my check-ins.

Thought you were staying home 2nite.

Got bored.

Oh. K. Have fun.

Huh. Did she mean have fun for real? Or was she annoyed? Because, frankly, I wanted her to be annoyed. “What now?” I asked Miranda.

“So the goal is to get her thinking about you, right?” When I nodded she pulled out her phone. “Pic of you and me. Now.”

“Brilliant,” said the Rum and Coke. But before I did that, I texted back, Love the dance moves.

Miranda took at least seven shots of us leaning in together. After each take she would study it and attempt improvement. “You need to be closer to me. Oh, f**k, my eyes are closed in this one. Put your arm around me.”

“Why is this so damn complicated? And why is my drink empty?”

“The mysteries of life.” She showed a picture to me. “Okay, I’m posting this one now.”

I barely saw the picture before she yanked her phone away again.

My phone went off.

Thx. Who are you with?

A friend.

She’s cute.

That should have been a warning. Like a really big fat-ass warning. Instead, I just felt triumphant. Kylie was paying attention. Kylie was jealous. Therefore, she cared what I was doing and about me.

Normally, I could follow the line of reasoning beyond the obvious and conclude that fanning the flames resulted in a big f**king fire. But my brain was clouded by alcohol and didn’t realize that I was in danger of being caught by a relationship flashover, the near-simultaneous ignition of most of the directly exposed combustible material in an enclosed area, i.e., pissing off your girl by waving pictures of you with a woman she doesn’t know in her face via social media.

What I actually typed was, She’s a chem grad student, too. Super smart.

Which was basically like taking a container of gasoline and tossing it on top of a burning campfire.

You’ll never escape without getting burned.

And I was too stupid and drunk to run anyway.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I hadn’t had a drink since November, so when we finally got together for our Girls’ Night pj party two weeks after Jessica suggested it, one martini was enough to go to my head. Two had me agreeing to twerk on camera. I liked to think I had rhythm. Rory claimed she could only dance when she was drunk and I would never tell her, but it was true. It was like her hips couldn’t move independently of the rest of her body. I could do all right in zumba and swing dance, and when I’ve had some vodka in me, my hipbones seemed to disconnect from my legs and I could do some amazing moves. That looked ridiculous when I watched them sober.