The girl personified curves, having a natural hourglass figure with an extra hour or two at each end. I’ve actually seen men nearly crash their cars when she walked down the street—the girl was a brick house.
She owned every room she was in without even trying. She was equally at home in the fanciest restaurant, ordering wines even I’d never heard of, or in the diviest dive bar, snort-laughing and throwing peanuts on the floor.
She dated politicians and cops, artists and firemen, a butcher, a baker, and while not technically a candlestick maker, one guy she dated was the president of the largest supplier of flashlights on the East Coast. She never got her heart broken; she was the heartbreaker.
After her year as a culinary student she enrolled at Columbia University, majored in advertising, and was now blazing a trail for herself in one of the hottest boutique ad firms in the city. She worked with Fortune 500 companies, putting together campaigns that everyone knew—you’ve probably hummed the song from a commercial she created.
Plus, she made a fucking killer margarita.
“Explain to me this,” she said, peeling the lid off the blender and pouring the frothy lime wonderful into two glasses. “He’s gorgeous.”
“Off the charts.”
“And you’ve got chemistry?”
“Off the charts,” I groaned, flopping facedown in a pillow. I could hear her click clacking her way over to where I lay, starfished. I heard the clink of a glass, then the sound of her getting settled across from me.
“And the sex?”
I pumped my hips up and down. “Off. The. Charts.”
“Yeah, I don’t see the problem here.” I could hear her sip her drink. “Also, that couch was really expensive, so quit with the humping.”
I sat up and frowned at her. “He wants me to, like, be with him.”
Now, a statement like that to anyone else would have resulted in a sarcastic Oh, poor you. But she got it. She knew me. She knew my bullshit.
Like the bullshit Leo was calling you on?
“I wondered why all of a sudden you run into the city,” she said. “Not that I’m not thrilled that you’re here.”
The door buzzer sounded. “Thank God—I’m starving.” I face planted into the pillow again, unable to get rid of the vision of me leaving Leo in the middle of that road. Hopefully the extra-spicy laksa would help me purge that, and most of my taste buds, right out of my head. Only in the city could you order Indonesian take-out delivery.
“Why the hell is she suffocating herself in your couch?” I heard, in a voice that didn’t remotely belong to a delivery guy.
“Clara?” I said, lifting my head and seeing our other best friend, standing in the doorway with a small rolling suitcase and a big grin.
“She said you finally got your ass on a train, so I got on one too!”
“My mouth is burning. I think. Is my mouth still where it used to be?” Natalie asked.
“Why do you order such spicy food if you can’t handle it?” Clara asked from her perch on the arm of the sofa. She hoovered up a bowl of chicken curry that I couldn’t even get within two feet of, and I had a pretty strong palate. She tipped up the edge of her bowl and slurped the rest of the sauce, smacking her lips.
“I love it. It’s so spicy, but I love it,” Natalie replied, moving toward the kitchen and stopping to check her reflection in the mirror. “But look how puffy it made my lips! It’s like a lip plumper!”
While she preened, I rolled toward Clara on the couch. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”
“I needed an excuse to get out of Boston for the weekend; things are positively stale there right now.” She looked toward my bowl of laksa. “Are you going to finish that?”
“I’m stuffed. Hit it.” As I passed her my takeout, I marveled that someone could eat so much and never gain a pound.
Clara and Natalie couldn’t be more opposite, and I wondered, not for the first time, that if we hadn’t all been away from home for our first time, if we ever would’ve become friends.
Clara was petite and athletic, with an almost boyish figure. A long-distance runner since high school, she walked with a powerful stride. She had an economy of movement that served her well as she competed in marathons and triathlons all over the world. With closely cropped blond hair and caramel colored eyes, she was a quiet beauty.
The most well traveled of our trio, Clara had a job that most people envied but few can actually do. After leaving culinary school, she enrolled in Cornell’s prestigious hotel management program. Rather than spend her nights and weekends working the front desk at the Brookline Marriott, though, she parlayed her keen eye and analytical mind into a position with a branding agency in Boston. She helped failing hotels in the United States and abroad get back on their feet, specializing in older historic hotels. So she traveled almost nonstop, sometimes spending weeks on site.
“Stale? Why? What’s going on?” I asked as she shoveled in the last few bites of food.
“I don’t really know. Work just seems a bit off at the moment. There might be some changes up top, and it makes for a weird vibe. I’m heading out of town next month, though, which will be nice.”
“And what glamorous city are you off to next? London? Amsterdam? Rio?”
“Orlando.” She sighed. Then burped slightly, which she apologized for with a sheepish grin.
“Orlando? That’s a little . . . different for you,” I replied, crinkling my eyebrows.
“It’s a little awful for me. What the hell do I know about magical mice?” she snorted, pushing the bowl away from her and patting her nonexistent tummy.