How to Eat a Cupcake by Meg Donohue Read Free Book Online Page B

week.
    â€œJulia!” Jake called from the bar, stirring me from these unproductive musings.
    I crossed the room, enjoying the disappointed flush that crept up the back of Hanky Panky Girl’s neck as I did so, and perched myself on the stool beside Jake. He leaned over to kiss me on the cheek.
    â€œGlad you made it. Vodka tonic?”
    â€œPlease.”
    He ordered me the cocktail and watched with an amused twinkle in his aquamarine eyes as I took a long drink.
    â€œYou okay?” he asked.
    â€œSure,” I said. “Fabulous.”
    He held his beer up to his lips and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, gulping. “Something’s different.”
    I shrugged. “I’m engaged.”
    Jake laughed. “Well, I know that , Jules. It’s not the rock—it’s you. You seem . . . I don’t know. Different.”
    â€œNo, I don’t,” I said sharply. I drained my drink and Jake ordered me another. We’d moved on to other, lighter topics of conversation—Caroline Sistenberg’s recent stint in rehab for a Vicodin addiction that developed after she blew out her knee skiing in Aspen that winter, the new Peter Carraway restaurant opening in Jake’s building in North Beach, whether I should switch to a martini for my third drink—when I suddenly found myself asking, yelling, actually, truth be told, “And anyway, would it be so bad?”
    â€œWould what be so bad?” Jake asked, surprised.
    â€œIf I were different! If I’d changed. People change, Jake. Sometimes for the better.” I had no idea why I was saying this. I wasn’t even sure I believed it. And anyway, I hadn’t changed—I was exactly who I’d always been. Except, really, I was different now, wasn’t I? I suddenly envisioned that the only thing left of the old me was a painted, external shell. This , I thought angrily, trying to rein in my wayward thoughts, is why I shouldn’t drink .
    Jake shook his head. “I never said change was bad, Jules. I was just checking in on you. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
    â€œI’m not upset!” I said, but my face burned. I looked down at the martini that had appeared on the bar in front of me. “Maybe I should go.”
    â€œOh, c’mon, stay,” Jake said. He gave my shoulder a playful little push. “Let’s talk about something fun.” He squinted at me. “I know! Have you met Linus Tarrington’s new girlfriend yet? She’s one of those awful girls who are always wearing sequins and preening for photographers at events. And do you know where she grew up? Fresno .”
    â€œOh God, really?” I asked weakly.
    â€œThe worst part is I think she really has her eye on me . I have this theory that she’s planning on leapfrogging her way through our crowd and right into Gavin Newsom’s bed.”
    â€œJake, no!” I said, feeling the beginnings of a smile work its way onto my lips.
    He leaned in conspiratorially and held out his hand. “I’ll bet you a hundred dollars she dumps Tarrington right after opening night at the opera.”
    â€œPoor Linus!” I said, shaking Jake’s hand and laughing. At last, the martini spread its warmth through my veins.
    And so I stayed. Over the course of the next several hours, we got very, very drunk. I remember wondering, when Jake finally walked me out to find a cab, whether I would tell Wes about this little sojourn down memory lane. Why would I? I decided. Really, there was nothing to tell. Just old friends catching up over drinks.
    I recited my parents’ address to the cabdriver, hoping I wasn’t slurring my words. In the harsh light of day—and it was, uncomfortably, still quite sunny out—I was acutely embarrassed by the impropriety of being drunk on a Sunday afternoon. As I settled in the seat and pulled out my cell phone, I was surprised to see that I had