Bedwrecker
Bedwrecker - Kim Karr
To: Jody and Serena,
Your never-ending support means the world to me.
Maggie
For over a decade Taylor Swift has been waging a war against love—with her music, that is. Even if you only have a casual knowledge of her, you have to admit it—she does have a way with words. There must be like seven or eight people left on the planet that can’t sing at least some of the lyrics to “Shake It Off.”
Yes, I’m a big fan, and not only because people say I look similar to her, just a blonder, longer-haired version. Looks aside, we actually have a lot in common.
Men.
Men.
And more men.
There it is—we’re both boy crazy, fall in love easily, prefer not to label our relationships, and fall out of love just as fast as we fall in. Then again, I’m not sure you’d call it love. I don’t really believe in that particular four-letter word. Perhaps lust is a better one.
As “Bad Blood” fills the small space of the bathroom, I sing along, trying to figure out exactly what the lyrics mean. Is the couple breaking up? Getting back together? On hold?
With a sigh, I give up and finish washing my hands. Sometimes, it’s just really hard to tell.
Smoothing my palms down my tight-fitting, very short, silver-sequined dress, I pop open the stall door and march out in my sky-high platform heels.
They’re booties, actually. Jeffrey Campbell. And adorable.
Turning the corner of this super-chic ladies lounge, I catch sight of the gleam of something silver. “What’s that?” I approach Makayla from behind in a cloud of perfume and dig my chin into her shoulder.
She closes the box so fast I can’t see what’s in it and then slips it back into her purse before I can blink. “A gift for Cam,” she answers as if that is the end of that.
“What kind of gift?” I eye my straitlaced best friend suspiciously in the mirror.
She swivels on the pointed toe of her kitten heel and steps quickly as if attempting to make a getaway. “Just a gift.”
“Wait one minute.”
She turns around before pulling the handle to one of the stall doors.
With my arms crossed, I stick my leg out and start bouncing it like a hooker waiting for her john to pay up. “Come back here right now.”
“I have to pee. Hold on.”
Yeah, right. Like I believe that.
Leaning against the vanity, I decide to give her three minutes, and then I’m going in and snatching that adorable little pearl purse that matches that cute black Audrey Hepburn–like dress of hers perfectly.
Seriously though, Makayla Alexander has style with a capital S.
We couldn’t be more different, which I suppose is why we get along so very well. She’s a jewelry designer and lives next door to me back in Laguna Beach, with her boyfriend, Camden Waters. She and I met not long after I moved to New York City from California more than fifteen years ago.
We bonded over our hate for cheerleaders, love of lip gloss, and yes, eventually even Taylor Swift.
After Makayla’s mother died, she moved in with my mother and me. We’re like sisters. And although she didn’t leave the city three years ago when I did, she followed me to California soon enough. And like all lived-to-be-told love stories, while living with me she fell madly in love with the boy next door.
Sounds like the basis for a love song, but it’s true.
She moved in with Cam around Thanksgiving, and Cam’s roommate, Brooklyn James, moved in with me.
As strange as it sounds, we did a little roommate swap.
You can lower your brows right now. There is nothing romantic between Brooklyn and me; he is so not my type. He’s a board-short-wearing playboy, a manwhore, an ex–reality TV star, and a screenwriter wannabe. And I prefer men in suits.
And yes, he knows this.
But now I think all this pretending for the sake of matchmaking and shutting up about it has led him to have a crush on me.
Still, we’re just friends.
Just.
Friends.
Get it?
Good.
Now is probably not the best time to tell you he’s my date for the night, then. Just hold on. Listen. You see, Cam is from the city, and he decided it would be fun for the four of us to come to New York to see the ball drop in Times Square.
Happy New Year!
The two of them have been trying to match-make the two of us for what seems like forever.
Not happening.
Anyway, while Cam and Makayla have been making googly eyes at each other all night, Brooklyn and I have been on the prowl for new dates.
Shhh . . . don’t tell.
The bathroom door swings open and Makayla stumbles out. I think she’s already had a little too much to drink and it’s only been midnight for like half a minute, or thirty minutes tops.
P.S. I kissed Brooklyn when the clock struck twelve, outside under all the confetti while the sky lit up with fireworks, and the ball dropped . . . and felt nothing.
To: Jody and Serena,
Your never-ending support means the world to me.
Maggie
For over a decade Taylor Swift has been waging a war against love—with her music, that is. Even if you only have a casual knowledge of her, you have to admit it—she does have a way with words. There must be like seven or eight people left on the planet that can’t sing at least some of the lyrics to “Shake It Off.”
Yes, I’m a big fan, and not only because people say I look similar to her, just a blonder, longer-haired version. Looks aside, we actually have a lot in common.
Men.
Men.
And more men.
There it is—we’re both boy crazy, fall in love easily, prefer not to label our relationships, and fall out of love just as fast as we fall in. Then again, I’m not sure you’d call it love. I don’t really believe in that particular four-letter word. Perhaps lust is a better one.
As “Bad Blood” fills the small space of the bathroom, I sing along, trying to figure out exactly what the lyrics mean. Is the couple breaking up? Getting back together? On hold?
With a sigh, I give up and finish washing my hands. Sometimes, it’s just really hard to tell.
Smoothing my palms down my tight-fitting, very short, silver-sequined dress, I pop open the stall door and march out in my sky-high platform heels.
They’re booties, actually. Jeffrey Campbell. And adorable.
Turning the corner of this super-chic ladies lounge, I catch sight of the gleam of something silver. “What’s that?” I approach Makayla from behind in a cloud of perfume and dig my chin into her shoulder.
She closes the box so fast I can’t see what’s in it and then slips it back into her purse before I can blink. “A gift for Cam,” she answers as if that is the end of that.
“What kind of gift?” I eye my straitlaced best friend suspiciously in the mirror.
She swivels on the pointed toe of her kitten heel and steps quickly as if attempting to make a getaway. “Just a gift.”
“Wait one minute.”
She turns around before pulling the handle to one of the stall doors.
With my arms crossed, I stick my leg out and start bouncing it like a hooker waiting for her john to pay up. “Come back here right now.”
“I have to pee. Hold on.”
Yeah, right. Like I believe that.
Leaning against the vanity, I decide to give her three minutes, and then I’m going in and snatching that adorable little pearl purse that matches that cute black Audrey Hepburn–like dress of hers perfectly.
Seriously though, Makayla Alexander has style with a capital S.
We couldn’t be more different, which I suppose is why we get along so very well. She’s a jewelry designer and lives next door to me back in Laguna Beach, with her boyfriend, Camden Waters. She and I met not long after I moved to New York City from California more than fifteen years ago.
We bonded over our hate for cheerleaders, love of lip gloss, and yes, eventually even Taylor Swift.
After Makayla’s mother died, she moved in with my mother and me. We’re like sisters. And although she didn’t leave the city three years ago when I did, she followed me to California soon enough. And like all lived-to-be-told love stories, while living with me she fell madly in love with the boy next door.
Sounds like the basis for a love song, but it’s true.
She moved in with Cam around Thanksgiving, and Cam’s roommate, Brooklyn James, moved in with me.
As strange as it sounds, we did a little roommate swap.
You can lower your brows right now. There is nothing romantic between Brooklyn and me; he is so not my type. He’s a board-short-wearing playboy, a manwhore, an ex–reality TV star, and a screenwriter wannabe. And I prefer men in suits.
And yes, he knows this.
But now I think all this pretending for the sake of matchmaking and shutting up about it has led him to have a crush on me.
Still, we’re just friends.
Just.
Friends.
Get it?
Good.
Now is probably not the best time to tell you he’s my date for the night, then. Just hold on. Listen. You see, Cam is from the city, and he decided it would be fun for the four of us to come to New York to see the ball drop in Times Square.
Happy New Year!
The two of them have been trying to match-make the two of us for what seems like forever.
Not happening.
Anyway, while Cam and Makayla have been making googly eyes at each other all night, Brooklyn and I have been on the prowl for new dates.
Shhh . . . don’t tell.
The bathroom door swings open and Makayla stumbles out. I think she’s already had a little too much to drink and it’s only been midnight for like half a minute, or thirty minutes tops.
P.S. I kissed Brooklyn when the clock struck twelve, outside under all the confetti while the sky lit up with fireworks, and the ball dropped . . . and felt nothing.