“But only because I know those plans include bringing me out of the slums with you when you make it big and go legit.” She moves back as Betty sets her plate down, then mine, before grunting and leaving.
“I am legit.” I pick up my fork and dig in. I never skip a meal. I can’t. But also because I don’t want to.And I especially love breakfast. Something about it just makes it better than any other meal of the day. It’s a fact. Look it up.
“Yeah, sure. So legit that you only had to bail on a few projects last month because of that other job of yours that you say is just a small thing. A small thing that keeps interfering with the big job you say you do. Going legit means getting out of the other things and focusing solely on your dream job.”
“Shut it, Summer,” I say as I chomp through my food. I’m too hungry to stop and give her more than a mouthful of mumbled words with a deep scowl thrown in.
She brushes my actions away with a wave of her hand. Always the delicate one, she takes the time to clear her mouth before talking. “Save it, Viv. You can give all the excuses in the world, but we both know you’re scared to take that step. Commitment is your problem, my friend. Been saying it for years.”
“I commit,” I protest as I take a healthy drink of my now-lukewarm hot chocolate.
“Yeah, to a project. Once it’s done, you move on. Which is great to a point. But we’re talking about something that lasts more than three months.”
“My last job was twelve years! Besides, the whole point of the job is to focus on one at a time. It’s called making what the client requests. Look it up.”
She purses her lips and huffs as before narrowing her eyes. “We both know the only reason there was a commitment on the last big job was because you had nothing else to do. It was about a lack of opportunities at that point, not commitment, not staying power. Once you figured out what the dream job was for you, you gave them the middlefinger. Literally, if I remember from the text you sent me as you walked out of that place.”
I laugh at the memory. Good times. But she has a point. I hate to admit it, but I do anyway. “You’re right.”
“What?” She puts her fork down and leans close, going as far as putting her hand to her ear as she tilts her head. “What was that?”
I lean in but speak loud enough for her to wince at the volume. “You. Were. Right.” I smile wide as I sit back in my chair and enjoy the blush on her cheeks as she notices everyone looking at us. No doubt even that table she was gabbing over before. But I don’t care. I’m used to having people look at me. Summer should be over it by now as well. With the number of times I’ve done this to her, you’d think she learn.
We eat in silence while she stops trying to fix me—for now. She does it often. Not that I’m broken, but to her, I’m not entirely complete. And I love messing with her too much to just let it go.
“So,” I say after our check is dropped off.
“So what?” She pushes the last of her food into a pile, then grabs her toast to use as a wall to put it all on her fork for one last bite.
“Did it work?”
“Did what work?” she asks a second before she eats.
“Did they look?” I smile like the devil I pretend to be, but it falls flat.
“Who?” she mumbles around the food in her mouth.
I throw my hands up in frustration. It’s not fun to mess with someone who doesn’t even get it when it happens. Evenworse when you have to spell it out for them. Totally defeats the purpose of a joke. “Whoever you were fixated on.” I wave my hand behind me, having no clue if they’re still there or not. I still haven’t looked.
Her eyes go wide as she wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Oh my God, seriously?”
I shrug. “What? Just trying to be your wing daddy.” I say it like it’s a thing, but we both know I don’t aim to help her pick up dudes. Not against it, just never an active participant in it. She has zero problem getting laid. My girl is hot. Sure, her hair is shorter now, but she pulls off the shoulder-length look. It works for her and her highlighted brown hair. At least that’s the color of the month. She’s changed it so often that I doubt she even knows what her natural hair color is anymore.
Unlike me, who dyed it once as a kid and never deviated from that color choice. Went from dirty brown to champagne blonde and never looked back. And yes, I picked the champagne color because I thought it sounded cool, and I might have thought I was going to be able to drink the stuff while getting my hair dyed that first time. I didn’t. Well, not then. I was fifteen, and Mom said no. Didn’t mean Summer and I didn’t sneak some later that week to toast our new looks. It was her first dye job, too, back then. Benefits of growing up together—most of our firsts happened together.
On top of the cute hair and pretty face, Summer has a killer body. She works out, and you can tell. She’s cut and shredded. Some might be intimidated by the look, but she softens it up so much that half the time, people think she was just born that way and not that she spends hours lifting each week.
Unlike me, who also lifts as much, if not more, than her. But I spend more time in the cardio and yoga side of our gym while she hits the weights. I spend time there, too, just not the full two hours like her. So while I might be badass—in my mind at least—I have to toughen up my look. I’m too soft to be seen as dangerous, and that’s why no one sees me coming. They think I’m just some sweet blonde, but if they don’t pay up for the goods I provide, I get handsy. And I’m not the type to scratch, more like punch someone in the dick.
“Wing daddy isn’t a thing.”
“Sure it is. Look it up.”
She shakes her head, but subtly, as she drinks her coffee, careful not to spill it. “Totally not looking that up. Don’t need some weird shit popping up on my phone and my kids see it. Not like last time.”
I grab my drink and point it at her. “Told you not to look.”
She puts her cup down as I sip the last gooey goodness from mine. “No, you said, and I quote, ‘Have you seen “2 Girls 1 Cup”? It’s crazy.’”
