F*ck Love by Tarryn Fisher Read Free Book Online Page B

this time. Food that I didn’t order arrives: scallops on mango quinoa. I’ve never eaten scallops, but he tells me they’re his favorite. They have the texture of a tongue, and I briefly consider that he’s sending me a message. By the time I’m onto dessert, the bar stools are mostly empty, and Nina Gordon is playing over the speakers. I’m way buzzed. I’m thinking how fun it would be to dance to this song in the empty restaurant. Since I am not a good dancer, I know this is an unreliable boozy thought.
    Kit comes to sit on the barstool next to me. What I really like about him is that he has never once asked why I’m here. Like his girlfriend’s best friend showing up at his job, and getting wasted alone, is completely normal.
    “We close in an hour. May I drive you home?”
    “I can Uber,” I say. “It’s no big deal.”
    He shakes his head. “I’m just afraid for you,” he says. “If the Uber driver sees how dirty your clothes are, he may think you’re not good for the fare.”
    “That’s true,” I say. There are several glasses of flat seltzer on the bar in front of me. He stacks up the plates left over from my dinner. I pull out my wallet, but he waves me away.
    “I fed you tonight.”
    I’m too lightheaded to argue.
    “We can leave in about an hour-thirty. That okay?”
    I nod. When he leaves, I summon the Uber, and scribble a quick note on my napkin. I slide it under my empty glass, along with a twenty.
    I should never have come. I should never have stayed. I should never have written the note. I almost go back, but I’m uncertain on my feet, and the driver is looking at me like he’s thinking about leaving.
     
    I wake up on my couch. My couch smells like patchouli. I fucking hate patchouli. I cover my nose and roll onto my back. I didn’t even make it to the bedroom. Which is cool, because I also threw up on one of my throw pillows, and no one likes vomit in their bed. I stumble over to the trashcan and stuff the throw pillow inside. Then I take a shower. I’m halfway through soaping my hair when I remember the note I left for Kit at the bar. I groan. I jump out of the shower, not bothering to grab a towel, and run for my phone. God. A gazillion missed calls from Neil, and my parents, and Della, and my job. Blah blah. Soap is running down the back of my legs. I scroll through the texts until I see Kit’s name.
    K: WTF
    That’s all it says. I cover my mouth with my hand. What did the note say? I close my eyes. I remember how clumsy the pen felt between my fingers. How the nub ripped the napkin in some places, and I had to pull it taut to write.
    I HAD A DREAM. DON’T MARRY DELLA
    I groan. Suddenly, I need to throw up again. Instead, I take a selfie. My hair is globbed up on one side of my head, and there is mascara streaking down my face. I put the photo in an album called Mortifying Emotional Moments, and I title it Soggy Napkin Note. The last selfie I posted in there was of me on the day I graduated college. My perfectly made up face is happy … relieved. I called that one: Sallie Mae Can Suck It.
    I finish my shower and feel more hopeful. I’ll never see Kit again. That will solve all the problems at hand. Somehow I’ll find someone better for Della, someone taller, with a less satirical face. She’ll be happier with a doctor or an investment broker anyway. Someone to fund her lifestyle, who wouldn’t infringe on her independence. Or I could find a new best friend. Elaine, from college, always liked me. I liked her hair.
     
    Neil wants to go to the beach. He says “just us,” but you know how that goes. Always seeing someone you know when you’re in a bikini and your stomach is bloated from all the drinking and eating you did from the night before. I go anyway, and wear a monokini. I still feel whoozy when I step out of my shorts and lay on my towel, my head underneath an open book. Neil’s been talking about his job for the last forty minutes. He hasn’t asked me a damn