“Okay, fine, killjoy. Don’t tell me about your amazing anal sex. But you have to tell me one thing.”
“What?”
Resting her elbows on the table, she leans closer and lowers her voice. “He’s hung like a Clydesdale, isn’t he?”
It’s my turn to smile mysteriously.
She gasps in outrage and slaps her open palm on the tabletop. “You twat! You can’t keep that to yourself!”
When I only sip my wine and keep smiling, she glowers at me.
“If you don’t start talking, I’ll shoot you with this gun in my boot. I swear, I will.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“I kept that picture of you from when you first got your braces on when you were fifteen. Remember how that was during your mohawk-and-black-lipstick phase, when you wanted to run away and join the circus to be an emo clown? And you’d been experimenting with facial piercings? You had such cute freckles then, too.”
She says flatly, “You know those were zits. And it was a punk contortionist, not a fucking emo clown. And you told me you threw that photo out!”
I sigh dreamily, as if lost in good memories. “I lied. But I’m sure the local paper would love to feature a throwback pic of the third runner-up in the Miss Tahoe contest of 2014—”
“2015.”
“—in the Lifestyle section. You’re such a popular yoga teacher in this area. How many Instagram followers do you have now? Four thousand?”
“Forty thousand. Which you know. Witch.”
“Hey, maybe they’ll want to do a Before and After photo spread! Those are always fun. I think I’ve also still got a bunch of photos from the summer between fifth and sixth grades when your parents sent you to fat camp.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I love you, too.”
After a moment, she raises her glass to me in a toast. “Okay. You win. I’ll just keep on thinking he’s got a dick longer than my forearm.”
I grimace. “I’d be in the hospital.”
This is when she notices the ring on my finger and freezes. She stares at it like it’s a hairy tarantula crawling up my hand. “What…is…that?”
“A ring.”
“No shit! Did you get engaged without telling me?”
I twist the interlocking bands of gold around on my finger, shaking my head. I say softly, “It’s a promise ring.”
Examining my expression, she narrows her eyes. “Was this promise a suicide pact?”
I sigh, scrub my hands over my face, then swallow a big gulp of wine. Mojo decides it’s time to go back to sleep and curls up under the table. “It’s not an engagement ring, because we can’t get engaged. He’s not allowed to marry anyone except who his boss tells him to.”
When her mouth drops open in shock, I look down at the tabletop and add miserably, “We can’t live together, either. He doesn’t think it’s safe for me. And we’re only going to be seeing each other every once in a while, when he can get away. However often that might be, which sounds like it won’t be very often.” I hesitate. “And…”
“Sweet Jesus, there’s more?”
“Yeah.” I down another swig of wine, then exhale a heavy breath. “He can’t have kids. No, that’s not it—he doesn’t want kids, so he had a vasectomy when he was younger.”
Silence.
When I glance up at her, Sloane is staring at me with the constipated look she only wears when she’s worried about me.
“What’s that face for?”
“I just hope…”
“What?”
Glancing down at her wineglass, she slowly traces her finger around the rim. Then she raises her gaze to mine and says softly, “I hope he’s worth it, babe. Because it sounds like you’re giving up a lot just to ride the guy’s dick.”
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted me to sleep with him so badly.”
“Yeah, sleep with him. Then move on, like a normal person.”
“I told you this would happen! I told you I’d fall in love with him if I slept with him, and you laughed at me!”
“I didn’t realize your heart was located inside your vagina.”
I say bitterly, “We can’t all be as lucky as you and have a shard of ice for a heart.”
As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I regret it. I reach over and squeeze her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
She squeezes my hand back, then sighs. “It’s okay if you did. Because you’re right. But don’t think I’m lucky, because I’m not. I’m…”
She struggles to find a word, then twists her lips. “Defective.”
“You’re not defective.”
Sounding uncharacteristically glum, she says, “I am. I’m missing that essential part that makes people fall in love. I’m the only girl I’ve ever heard of who rolls her eyes at love songs and hates it when guys get attached and would rather attend a funeral than a wedding.”
“It’s true, you’re basically a dude. But you’re still not defective. I’m telling you, you just haven’t met the right one yet.”
Sloane levels me with a look. “And I’m telling you, I can’t fall in love.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not exaggerating. I’m literally incapable. My brain doesn’t work that way. It’s like how you are with math. Quick, answer this: what’s nine times twelve?”
After a moment of severe mental strain, I say, “Fine, so you can’t fall in love.”
“You see? How depressing is that?”
“At least you can double a recipe. The last time I made banana muffins, I had to call my mom to figure out how to double two-thirds of a cup of flour.”
We share a companionable, depressed silence for a moment, then Sloane brightens. “I know what we need right now!”
“If you say ‘dick,’ I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
She ignores me. “Pizza. Nobody can be sad when they’re gorging on a cheesy, meaty pizza pie.”
“That does sound pretty good.”
Examining my gloomy expression, she lifts her brows. “Gee, don’t get too excited. Now who’s the emo clown?”
“I was just thinking…what if we end up as two crabby, single old ladies, living together when we’re eighty, fighting over the TV remote and shouting at the neighbor kids to stay off the lawn? What if this whole love thing wasn’t meant to work out for either one of us, and in the end…we’re each other’s loves of our lives?”
She smiles warmly at me. “We are. But don’t worry, you’re gonna ride off into the sunset with Mafia Romeo. That will happen even if I have to threaten him with death myself.”
Of all the times Kage has probably faced the prospect of dying, I have no doubt my best friend would be the scariest.
Getting choked up, I say, “I’m so glad you’re back.”
Rising from the table, she heads to the drawer by the stove where I keep the takeout menus. “Me, too. But you might change your mind when I order kale on this pizza.”