Which is, what? Progress?
I can just walk in now. Strut through those gates like I belong here. And I’m not a raccoon in a sunhat who used to hide in the bushes sniffing his wet footprints. I’m Benji’s actual maybe-sort-of girlfriend and not just some deranged, sex-drunk therapy goblin who’s been haunting his pool like a siren with abandonment issues.
Can I still text Rhys questions now that he and Benji are hanging out? Does bro code apply? Do I need to find a new therapist? Especially since Rhys kisses like a priest who stopped believing in God and started believing in me.
I’m spiraling. That’s fine. I like it down here.
No sign of Rhys or Jett yet, so I swing my legs out of the car and pull on my pink sunhat and heart-shaped glasses. My pinup cover-up swishes behind me. Today I own this pool.
I walk in and immediately trip over my own fucking pride.
Because Benji, my Benji, my sweet dandelion-hung pool daddy, is currently in the water, lacing fingers with Susan.
Fucking Susan.
Of course Susan’s ass is doing hateful things to physics while she giggles and floats like a smug little donut. Her hair’s slicked back like she’s starring in a very budget Baywatch reboot and she’s got her fingers curled around his like she bought them on Etsy.
And I hate to say it, but her ass does look good.
Her eyebrows are still tragedy in two arches. Sharpie vibes.
I freeze mid-strut, stunned into silence, betrayal, and a deep, clawing wave of what the actual fuck. I drop into the nearest lounge chair.
That’s when I see Kira. Goose lady. She’s poolside, legs crossed like a threat. Looking like a sexy heron ready to steal my man and my self-worth. Elegant. Slim. Legs for days. The kind of woman who eats fruit from porcelain dishes and never once thinks about licking Nutella off someone’s abs in a Target parking lot.
What the fuck is happening? Why are the women who thirst after Rhys suddenly migrating to Benji’s pool?
My fists curl. My brain tries to say be cool but my body is already planning a water-based felony. My rage is goose-shaped and wears expensive sunscreen.
“Good job, lover,” Kira calls out in her goose voice.
Time. Stops.
Lover?
Lover??
LOVER?
Benji smiles. Like he didn’t just get caught in a sexy cult with bitches who moisturize.
And then Kira stands. Does that floaty walk, hips all sway and no shame, and glides over to Susan.
I’m holding my breath like I’m in a hostage negotiation.
She wraps her arms around Susan’s waist. Possessively. And they kiss.
They kiss.
They fucking kiss.
Okay. Okay. Okay. That’s fine. That’s great. That’s actually hot as fuck. That’s not Benji’s girlfriend. That’s Benji’s friend’s girlfriend. Or girlfriend’s girlfriend. Or maybe they’re all just bi and hydrated and I’m having a bisexual panic in a cherry print bikini.
They’re still kissing.
I am an insecure disaster with a front-row seat to gay mermaid porn. And I can’t even be mad, because it’s so fucking beautiful. I am a voyeur with abandonment issues. Staring like it’s my job. I don’t know if I’m turned on or just grateful they’re not competing for Benji’s dick.
Christ, the way they’re kissing. It’s like watching two sea nymphs make out before sacrificing a man to Poseidon. I’m torn between asking to join or calling Animal Control because I’m not equipped for this level of aquatic chaos.
