Intercepted (Page 14)

Naomi squeezes me tighter. “You deserve to be happy too.” She’s crying now. Naomi always cries when she gets drunk. “Chris was never ever good enough for you.”

“Now that we know how much y’all love each other and what Marlee deserves, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” A stone-cold sober Brynn interrupts us. “You’re searching for something to wear? I’ll have my pops watch HERS and go with you guys. At the very least, a night with your ex calls for a new dress, shoes, and lipstick.”

“And new panties!” Naomi shouts what I’m pretty sure in her head was meant to be a whisper.

“Why would I need new underwear?” I ask. “I can’t see into the future and even I know nobody will be seeing those.”

“I dunno. I just like shopping for lingerie. Plus, pretty undies make you feel sexy even if nobody else sees them.” She locks her eyes with mine and places her hand on my shoulder. “And I say this with love, girl, if Chris brings Ava, you’re gonna wanna feel sexy. I hate her, but I’d be a liar if I said she wasn’t super freakin’ hot.”

“I’m well aware.” I’m also in the know about her waxing style, but I decide to keep that little tidbit of gossip to myself.

I hate Naomi for bringing Ava up and at the same time I want to kiss her. I was a mess enough at the thought of seeing Chris, Ava hadn’t even crossed my mind.

Okay.

Lying to myself again.

Ever since I stumbled across Chris’s personal porn gallery, I’ve been trying my hardest to convince myself this had nothing to do with me and Chris is just a pig. Some days I even believe it. But others? Well, those days I think about all the times I didn’t order a salad or go to the gym like I should’ve. I think of the sweats I’ve had since high school that I wear for pajamas and not something silk and lacy like Chris was always trying to get me to wear. I ask myself if I tried harder, if I lost those pesky fifteen—FINE!—twenty pounds I’ve been holding on to for years if he wouldn’t have strayed.

Naomi’s right. I’m going to need every little bit of sexiness I can manage.

* * *

• • •

SIPPING MY ICED coffee and tapping my foot at the Nordstrom entrance, I check the time on my phone again. This is why I’m always late. Waiting for other people sucks.

Brynn shows up first. Her blonde hair is pulled into a topknot on the crown of her head, and she’s wearing a fitted tee, skinny jeans that are ripped at the knee, and a pair of Converse, and she still manages to look as if she spent all her life roaming the streets of Paris and Milan. She’s one of those effortless beauties you hate because if you walked down the street like that, people would probably give you their change and leftovers.

Naomi, on the other hand, looks a hot-ass mess. She shows up twenty minutes late with oversized sunglasses, a large coffee, and Advil on hand to help with the hangover she’s nursing. If we weren’t here to get me around my ex tonight, I would’ve felt bad for her. But as it is? I stick my tongue out at her and point and laugh.

Maturity isn’t my strong point.

“First we find the dress, then shoes, unless of course we need to hit lingerie for a special bra.” Brynn looks to her phone where she no doubt has a note written with today’s schedule on it.

“We should probably look for a bra . . . or Spanx, first. I’m gonna need some armor to brave fluorescent lights and extra-large mirrors.”

“Let’s just get this show on the road and lower our voices while we do it.” Naomi grabs her head.

“Every party has a pooper, that’s why we invited you, party pooper,” I sing much too loud. Naomi cringes, Brynn laughs, and the old man holding his wife’s bags glares. You can’t win them all.

“Oh my god. If you never sing again, I’ll buy whatever shoes you want today,” Naomi says.

“Are you kidding me?” Brynn asks. “If you sing everything like we are living in a musical, I’ll double your pay.”

Suffice to say, I’m not the most talented singer in the world. But what I lack in talent, I make up for in volume and chutzpah.

I don’t go full on Rent, but I have to buy my own shoes.

Three hours, one dress, one matching bra and panty set, two pairs of shoes, three shades of red lipstick, and a necklace later, I’m broke.

I’m also going to the fashion show.

Curse you, Nordstrom, and your wide selection.

We’re also ordering lunch.

“Naomi, we aren’t at a Lady Mustangs meeting. I swear if you order a side salad and reach for anything on my plate, I’ll shank you.”

“Are you kidding me? I’m getting the bacon burger and fries. Hangovers are a valid excuse to break your diet. Lettuce doesn’t absorb booze; you can only count on carbs to get that job done. Speaking of Mustangs meetings”—Naomi closes the menu and looks to me with a sparkle only good gossip can put in her eyes—“did I tell you what happened on Wednesday?”

“Oh lord.” I settle on the chicken sandwich and put my menu down. “You didn’t, but I’m not having a hard time imagining it.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Brynn slams her hand on the table. “What the hell is a Lady Mustang?”

Sweet girl, so innocent from the horrors and cattiness of NFL wives.

“The charity group run by the Mustang players’ wives. The cause is good, but somewhere it went a little haywire.” Naomi fills her in.

“By somewhere, she means Courtney Matthews. The evil other half of Kevin Matthews,” I whisper across the table in case any Nosy Nelly’s are sitting nearby.

“Got it . . . start talking.” Brynn motions for Naomi to start her story. I mean, the girl owns a bar; she’s not one to shy away from juicy gossip.

“Okay. So Courtney starts the meeting with the bang of her stupid glitter gavel. Yeah, she has a gavel,” she says to Brynn, whose eyes have already doubled in size. “And she goes, ‘Welcome Lady Mustangs. My fellow wives.’ She stressed ‘wives’ like that. ‘Wives, if you haven’t already heard, we’re finally back to the way we’re meant to be. I think Dorothy said it best, but I’ll give it a go: ding-dong, the girlfriend’s dumped!’”

I laugh at the same time Brynn lets out a horrified gasp.

“Can you believe it? And everyone’s laughing at her like she’s on Saturday Night Live or something. I’m sitting there looking at them like they’re crazy and say, ‘Pretty sure Dorothy never said that, maybe it was the brainless scarecrow.’ Like freaking Mean Girls robots, they all stop laughing at the exact same time and aim their red, glowing eyes my way. It was terrifying. I thought they might all attack me, remove my brain, and put it in a jar for Courtney to put next to the rest of theirs that are no doubt hidden somewhere in her house.”

The waiter stops at our table to take our order, but before he gets a chance to speak, Brynn turns to him and says, “She’s in the middle of the best story I’ve ever heard, we need another minute . . . or fifteen. Please.”

Good news for us, he’s had heart eyes for Brynn since the second we walked in, and he not-so-discreetly whispered to the hostess to seat us in his section, so instead of being insulted and maybe spitting in our food, he’s just happy he heard Brynn’s voice.

“Okay.” Brynn looks back to Naomi when he walks away. “Continue and don’t lose any of your enthusiasm.”