Note to self: add showers to your to-do list.
As I hightail it to the bathroom, the device vibrates with a text.
Elodie: Guess what I got for you?
That’s such a trick question. I don’t even want to play her guessing game, since I’ll get it wrong. But I do love gifts from all my friends fiercely. As I strip off my stinky shirt, I reply.
Rachel: A pony?
Elodie: You’re close. Think horses.
Hmm. Does my chocolatier bestie know any hot cowboys to set me up with? A gal can dream. With my phone in one hand, I shimmy off my exercise pants, dictate a reply, then hit send.
Rachel: A date with a hot cowboy who’ll ride in on a stallion?
Elodie: *writes down idea for next year’s Christmas gift.* Anyway, not that, but you can definitely ride this stallion.
I’m simultaneously excited and terrified as I toss my panties into the nearby hamper.
Rachel: Tell me the make and model!
Elodie: I’d better show you. I’ll come by later. Gotta go. Customer here.
And I’ll have to add See Elodie to my to-do list, but she’ll be a bright spot for sure, and after a terrible year (or five, but who’s counting), I do enjoy my bright spots. I set the phone down on the vanity, then turn on the water in my spacious rainfall shower—another bright spot in my life. As it heats up, I loop my hair into a bun.
Ten minutes later, after a scalding shower that steams up every surface in the bathroom, my butt no longer aches and I’m fresh as a coconut.
With the tropical bodywash scent filling the little room, I grab a towel. While I dry off, my phone buzzes again. I peer at the device, but the glass is steamed up.
Looks like Elodie’s texting again.
I’ll write back in just a second. Gotta dry my legs first.
The phone rings.
I sigh, but I’m laughing. She’s so impatient. I swipe up, answering the call without looking as I dry my back. “I solved your riddle. You got me a ten-speed vibrator. It’s called the Cowboy. And yes, I will test it tonight.”
Silence.
Nothing but crickets for five long seconds. Then a throat clears.
A masculine throat.
Carter’s handsome face looks out at me from the screen. “If that’s a hint, I can leave right now and pick that up for you,” he says, and when I look closer, I see my street behind him since he’s on my front stoop.
I freeze, all my dignity evaporating with the shower steam.
I’m naked, and I just flashed my best friend my boobs.
2
THE WORD OF THE DAY
Carter
Earlier this morning as I was brewing my coffee at home, I ripped off a page in my word-of-the-day calendar in the kitchen.
The word was lachrymose.
Another big-ass word no one uses in daily life.
But I’m committed to the learn-a-new-thing-daily resolution I made this year, so as I measured the beans into the grinder, I read the definition of the ten-dollar word—it’s an adjective used to describe someone who cries often.
Now, I’m pacing around Rachel’s block, giving her time to get dressed, and I’ve got a use for the fancy word all right. No, I don’t even try to put lachrymose into a sentence. No one can do that and mean it.
Instead, I repeat it—lachrymose, lachrymose, lachrymose—in a desperate attempt to drown out the other word echoing through my brain.
Boobs. Boobs. Boobs.
Rachel’s boobs.
My best friend’s boobs.
But c’mon, lachrymose. You can do it.
When I reach Fillmore Street, I pause, take a deep breath, and then soldier the hell on.
One foot in front of the other.
But the flashing billboard of perky beauties is too powerful.
As I walk down the busy shopping street I jerk my gaze right, then left. There has to be something on this block of Fillmore that’ll work like a time machine. Not that I want to forget the flashing. But I have to forget the flashing.
I spot my favorite place for coffee. More caffeine would be a bad idea. But An Open Book is a block away. I could get a new book.
Except…look over there. Like it’s a beacon of hope calling out to me, I follow the light of the quirky new gift shop across the street. Dubbed Effing Stuff, it’s like the universe’s answer to my help-me-forget-tits prayers.
I’ll get Rachel a mug.
Yes!
We have this ongoing mug-gifting game, and it’s probably my turn. If it’s not, I can use the distraction anyway. I’ll find one that says we’re friends and always will be, whether I’ve seen her in the buff or not.
Half-buff, to be precise.
Hmm, what does the other half of her look like in the buff?
Stop. Just stop.
Rachel’s beautiful—sure, I’d have to have been blind not to notice that before. And she’s funny, and smart, and kind. She also doesn’t take herself too seriously, which I like. But those are great best friend qualities—and that’s what I need in my life right now.
Plus, I’m pretty sure the last thing she needs in her upturned life is for her dude friend to suddenly perv on her.
With blinders on, I march into the quirky gift shop. “That one,” I say to no one in particular when I spot the perfect mug.
As in, perfectly innocent. There’s a unicorn shooting rainbows from its ass.
I grab that bad boy from a shelf and head straight to the counter. “One rainbow-tooting unicorn, please,” I say to the nose-ringed woman working there.
“So cute. My little niece loves unicorns.” She gestures to the shelves behind her with bags on hooks. “Want a gift bag?”
Yes! That’ll cement the goal of this gift for sure. “That one, please,” I say, picking a pink bag.
Pink is innocent.
I take ten more minutes and another lap around the block and then head back to Rachel’s place. On the way, my alarm beeps. Haircut later. I hit snooze. If I don’t, I’ll forget it again.
When I reach Rachel’s stoop, my mug sleight of hand has done the trick. Now the tricky bit—walking into her home like nothing happened.
And since I can learn from my mistakes, I call rather than FaceTime.
She answers with a chirpy, “Hello!”
That’s promising. She sounds like herself. The Great Flashing Incident must not have bugged her at all.
“Good morning, Sunshine.” There. Using the nickname I gave her back in high school will also help the reset. “Want to let me in?” I ask.
Wait…Does that sound dirty? Want to let me in? Or does it only sound dirty today?
“Of course,” she says.
The buzzer blares, and I bound up the steps. She’s already opening the door when I get there. Her chestnut hair is swept back in a ponytail and she’s wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and the most awkward grin ever.
Eyes up, I thrust the bag at her. “I got you a mug. A housewarming present.”
“Oh.” She takes the mug from the bag, but before I can see her reaction, I peer around her place, looking for something to focus on other than my dirty thoughts.