known to discuss sex around Gen. It could be because we have no shame, or it could be because it drives her crazy—okay, it’s both.
Somehow, though, I don’t think our conversation will cover Sex-Skyping. We haven’t spoken over the phone in weeks. I’m more interested in getting reassurance that everything is okay. My instincts were right that day on the hike. Something is up with him.
I smile anyway. “Probably so.” No point in drawing conclusions until I talk to Eric.
Mostly I’m nervous. We’ve never gone this long without talking. Once I know everything is fine, I’m sure my head will clear over this thing with Jaeger.
It’s midnight, and I’ve officially been stood up.
I’ve never been stood up—and by my own boyfriend?
Digging into my second pint of butter pecan ice cream, the sound of the bolt scraping comes from the front door. Gen walks in. Well, stomps, really.
I kick up my fuzzy slippers onto the retro wood coffee table (it’s actually old as shit, but I’m trying to think positive) of our rental cabin and wait for Gen to tell me what’s up.
She eyes my carton of ice cream and huffs out a sigh. “Out of every Ben and Jerry’s flavor in existence you picked butter pecan ? What about Cookies ’n Cream, Super Fudge Chunk, or, I don’t know, vanilla?” She tosses her purse on the floor and plops next to me on the couch, staring straight ahead.
I glance at her, the discarded purse, and then the tub of ice cream resting on my belly, the spoon sticking out like a flag. “Ouch. What’s wrong with butter pecan?”
Another long exhale, this time through her nose. “Let me have a bite of your disgusting ice cream.”
“ Disgusting ice cream is an oxymoron. Get a spoon, and I may allow your grubby fingers to grace the lip of my carton.”
Gen hoists herself from the couch and shuffles into the kitchen. The sound of drawers opening and closing and dishes clanking in the sink comes from behind. There are no clean spoons. I know this because I took the last one. If she succeeds in finding a clean spoon, I will happily donate my firstborn child to—
Gen enters the living room holding up a spoon like it’s a trophy. It’s bent at a sixty-degree angle with divots on the sides from the garbage disposal, but it’s legit.
Damn. Bye-bye firstborn.
She plops next to me and digs a massive scoop from my carton. Easing the spoon from her mouth, she considers her warped utensil. “I met someone.”
Ahhh, so that’s what this is about. Sounds promising. I almost forget my Eric misery with this news.
“He didn’t talk to me.”
Okay, maybe not so promising. “And why is he of interest? Steer clear of the A-holes, Gen. We’re looking for good guys.”
“I know—believe me, I know.”
“He kept looking at me, like he couldn’t help himself, and then I realized one of the girls at the party is his girlfriend.”
I choke on a drizzle of butter pecan running down my throat. “Oh God, no. Please tell me you are not interested in this guy. I thought the last one was an anomaly. Are you attracted to two-timing bastards, or something?”
Gen angles her head. “Let me finish.” Her look is exasperated. “Once I realized he had a girlfriend I wrote him off, okay. But—”
Oh, no. Nooo. She’s rubbing the sharp divots in her spoon as if to smooth them out, her train of thought lost. I’m afraid to think where this is going, and refrained from exploding all over her ass by a hair. The last thing she needs is the situation she escaped.
“—we sort of ran into each other in the hallway, like literally, we bumped into each other.” She turns to me, her eyes searching my face. “Cali, I’ve never felt that before. When he touched me … God, I don’t know how to explain it.”
Oh, I think I know. I grind my teeth, vividly remembering when Jaeger caught me from falling out of the fishing boat and the chemical reaction that little embrace created.
Anne Alexander, Julia VanTine