“Okay, this doesn’t seem healthy,” I mutter as Ronnie stands up, and haughtily snatches the device from my fingers.
“It’s a process,” she retorts, returning to her seat with a huff. “I amhealing.”
“And rage-texting Prince Dickface when you’re drunk is part of that process?”
Ronnie gives me a dubious look. “I’m sorry, aren’t we meeting becauseyoujust did the walk of shame?”
I open my mouth to deny it but can’t.
“That’s what I thought,” Ronnie says with a victorious smirk. “Nice attempt at deflection, though. Now, spill.”
Grimacing, I set my macchiato down on the table. “What’s the rush? Andie isn’t even here yet, and I know you texted her about this.” That, and I don’t feel like repeating this more times than I physically have to.
Ronnie purses her lips. “She has class right now, actually, which we both know you were already aware of. Stop stalling.”
I shake my head, my efforts to delay my shameful revelation thwarted. “I can’t say it, Ronnie. I’m too embarrassed.”
Her tone is reproachful when she snaps, “You arenotwithholding on me. Don’t make me unfollow you on TikTok.”
“I don’t have a TikTok,” I remind her. Or an Instagram. Or any social media at all, for that matter. I’m not necessarily against it, it’s just not for me.
Ronnie snorts. “Well, if you did, your attitude would make me unfollow you.” When I still don’t say anything, she prods, “Well? Are you going to tell me, or do I need to torture it out of you?”
Groaning, I cover my face with my hands. The truth is torture enough.
Just say it,I tell myself.Rip off the Band-Aid.
“I had sex with Damian again,” I admit, the words tumbling out in a rush.
The confession leaves my lips just as Ronnie takes a sip of her drink, and she sputters, choking on her latte. She slams the cup down, rattling the tiny, round table, and coughs a few times to clear her throat. I spread my fingers and peek at her sheepishly through the gaps. Behind her, I glimpse the barista staring at us, and I briefly wonder if he’s going to jump over the counter and come offer to give her CPR or, perhaps, a moist towelette, like something out of the bodice-ripping regency romance novels she adores so much.
“I’m…sorry?” she says once she’s composed herself. “I think I just had an aneurysm because IthoughtI heard you say you had sex with Damian Navarro.”
My hands slide down to cover my mouth, as if doing so will mask my shame.
Gasping, she points an accusatory finger at me. “I fucking knew it. IknewI saw you two together at the party last night.” She leans back in her chair, her tongue pressing against the inside of her bottom lip, jutting it out in an adorable pout. After stewing for a few seconds, she asks, “What the actual fuck, Lex? How can someone with such a big brain be so stupid?”
Ronnie was raised here in the States, and she sounds it. But every once in a while—usually, when she’s angry—a tiny twang comes out, compliments of her father, who was born and bred in Glasgow, and the summers she would spend in Scotland visiting her grandparents as a child. Her dad—a well-known TV chef—moved to the U.S. in his early thirties after falling head over heels for an American stunt double who could be Pedro Pascal’s twin, and together, they settled in California where they then got married, and had Ronnie via surrogate. Having parents with that kind of story, it’s no wonder Ronnie is such a firm believer in true love.
I, on the other hand, never had a relationship like that to look up to. My dad was, and always will be, a deadbeat.
“Trust me,” I say, sinking low into my seat in the hope the ground will open and swallow me whole, “I’m judging myself enough for the both of us. No extra criticism needed.”
“I just… I don’t understand,” she stammers. “After what he did freshman year, how could you let that asswipe touch you again? What, did you trip and land on his dick?”
I reach for my coffee, taking another tentative sip. “I had a lot to drink. And my contacts were bugging me, so I took them out. You know how blind I am. I couldn’t exactly see himclearly.” I wince at how bad that sounds, but try my best to appear indifferent, as if this whole ordeal is no big thing and not the worst mistake I could’ve possibly made right at the start of sophomore year. “I honestly didn’t know who I was going home with.”
“Wow.” Ronnie arches a disapproving brow. “Drunk You is kind of a slut.”
“Hey,” I scold, “that’s not very uplifting of you. I thought you were all about female empowerment?”
“I apologize,” she says, pressing a hand to her chest in mock deference. “Of course, you are not a slut. Damian is the slut. And on any other day, under any other circumstance, I would be thrilled that you got out there, and experienced a sexual awakening after all these months of self-inflicted abstinence. I’d love that for you. Really. I am here for that journey. ButDamian?” She shakes her head, her pink lips pursing. “I mean, yeah, he’s super hot and all, so Drunk You can be forgiven for your lapse in judgment on that particular front, but aside from theobviousreason this was a terrible idea, he’s fucked, like, every girl at this school, Lex. I’m honestly surprised he doesn’t have the clap.” Then, as if coming to some terrible realization, she mutters, “That we know of. Maybe get tested just to be safe. Who knows, he might be clean, but his dickhead personality could be contagious.”
I groan again, scrubbing a hand over my face. “That’s not helping.”
“I’m sorry”—Ronnie shrugs as if she isn’t really sorry at all—“but Drunk You has hit a new low, babe. I’m just glad Andie isn’t here to witness this. We both know she’d have a lot to say on the matter of your very misguided vagina.”
“Which is exactly why we shouldn’t tell her.”
