“Yeah, probably.” Just then, my phone beeps with a text. I glance down and see that it’s from Huxley. “One second.” I hold up my finger and then read the text.
Huxley: Can you come over to my place tomorrow? We have some updates I would like to go over.
I text him back quickly.
Breaker: Sure. What time?
Huxley: Nine. See you then.
I glance up at Lia. “Looks like Huxley has some updates.”
“Oooo, Shoemacher is going down.”
Chapter Eight
BREAKER
I’m fucking bored.
Staring at my computer and the Tetris blocks blotting down the screen, I realize that my life is pathetic.
Yup.
This is what I’m doing, playing Tetris on my computer like some seventy-year-old man, all because my best friend is hanging out with her soon-to-be husband, and my brothers are off having copious amounts of sex with their wives. See, this is exactly what I was talking about. I need a life outside of my norm.
I need people to hang out with.
I need activities.
I need something other than sitting at home by myself, wearing a Batman Band-Aid over my nipple because I thought it was funny.
Standing from my desk, I stretch my arms over my head, and I go to text JP to see what he’s doing, then pause. I know what he’s doing, his wife.
Huxley too.
And it’s not even like I can text Banner—our new business partner and friend—because he hooked up with someone at JP and Kelsey’s wedding. Everyone is coupled. EVERYONE!
Stupid, I should be coupled too, not sitting around my house, drinking freaking orange juice and attempting to beat my own personal best on Tetris at seven o’clock at night.
I pick up my phone, click on the thread with Birdy, and shoot her a text.
Breaker: What are you up to? I’m pathetically playing Tetris alone at the moment.
I walk to my bedroom, where I strip out of my shorts and put on a pair of black joggers just as she texts back.
Birdy: I’m watching Sex and the City while feasting on one of our pussy cakes.
Breaker: LOL. Want some company?
Birdy: Always. I’ll ping you my address. By the way, dress comfy. I’m in loungewear.
Breaker: Slipping on a plain T-shirt as we speak.
Birdy: Oh, did I mention no shirt is necessary?
Breaker: I think you skipped that detail. See you soon.
Birdy lives in a really nice apartment.
Gated community, lavish pool, and expertly landscaped. Not sure how much she pays for rent, but it’s probably more than I do, which I find funny given the vast difference in our bank accounts.
I pull into a parking spot outside of her building, grab the box of cupcakes from our class off my seat—never show up empty-handed—and jog up the steps toward apartment 3C.
I knock on the door three times, and I’m tempted to kick the footboard but remind myself that’s something I do with Lia and hold back. The locks are undone, and the door opens for me to find Birdy on the other side wearing a pair of silk shorts and a simple black tank top.
“You brought cupcakes? I thought you wouldn’t have any left after how you took them down in the class.”
“I went on a one-day detox.” I hand them to her just as she steps up to me, places her hand on my chest, and greets me with a kiss on the corner of my mouth. That was unexpected, but I didn’t mind it.
“I’m glad you’re here.” She then takes my hand and pulls me into her apartment.
I slip my shoes off, lock the door behind me, and then follow her into the living room, where she takes a seat on the couch and pulls me down with her.
Her apartment is what I would have expected from her. Pristine white furniture with beige and tan tones spread throughout the space. It’s clean, sharp, modern, and serene. Not one action figure decoration and not one poster. Very grown-up.
A far cry from my place.
And Lia’s for that matter.
Sitting on her knees, she turns toward me and says, “I need to talk to you about something.”
“Uh, okay,” I answer as I turn toward her as well.
“Well, more like apologize.”
“You apologized enough about the baking class,” I say. “And I had fun, oddly.”
“It’s not about the baking class. It’s about . . .” She winces and then adds, “The kiss.”
“Oh, uh, what about the kiss?” I ask her.
“I know it was awkward.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, knowing damn well it felt a touch awkward.
“I was nervous and clammed up when I kissed you. I’m honestly surprised you’re even here after that kiss. When I got your text, I gasped. I was waiting on a late-night Friday phone call telling me you can’t meet up to hike.”