Makayla sets her glass down and turns to fold up the ladder. “Okay, well, I improvised.”
“Improvised? No, you clearly ignored me.”
Leaning the ladder against the brick wall, she puts her hands on her hips. “No, I helped you plan a party that people would attend. No one wants to mourn love even if they don’t have it in their lives. People want hope, not despair.”
“Fine,” I mutter, “you might have a point, but you’re still not getting a thank you.”
Focusing anywhere but on me, she bites her lip. “In my defense, Maggie, we don’t know very many single people.”
She has a point. Brooklyn and I seem to be the only two left standing lately. And even then, people think we’re a couple and that the manwhore is cheating on me under our roof with all his loose women. I liked it when he took that vow of celibacy last year. Which lasted a whole two months.
Speaking of the manwhore, where is he?
If he couples up with someone tonight, I’m so going to kill him too. That crush of his certainly doesn’t seem to have any halo effect.
Damn him.
Makayla clears her throat. “You okay?”
Nodding, I gather my thoughts, which admittedly have been a little scattered when I’m not at work. “I emailed you a list of people. Didn’t I?”
She heads toward the side path that leads to her house. “Yes, you did. And most of the people responded with a plus one.”
“Why did you even make that an option?” I call as she rounds the corner.
No answer. Okay, I guess I’m having a Valentine’s Day party.
Yay, me!
Sixty minutes later I’m dressed in a white blouse with black hearts on it and cute little red short shorts. I match more than I’d like, but I’m too tired to spend much time picking anything else out. The black hearts on my top stand for the only anti left in Anti—Valentine’s Day Party anyway.
A glance in the mirror reminds me of just how tired I am. My straight hair hangs limp and although I should wash and blow-dry it, I decide to braid it mermaid-style and pull it to the side. After putting in a large pair of hoop earrings, I think about taking a nap, but instead force myself to look at my shoe options.
Boots.
Heels.
No way. Converse it is. One black and one red. No, one pink and one red. Maybe two black? Yes, two black.
Strange, I don’t think I’ve worn them together before.
Opening my French doors that lead to the beach, I breathe in the salt air and look out at the waves crashing on the shore. The night is cool, but the smell of smoke and burning wood nearby tells me Makayla has started a fire out on the outdoor patio.
How can you not love her?
Closing my door behind me, I step onto the sand and head around to the outdoor living area that is now glowing red. “Silly Love Songs” is playing and I shake my head. Wonder if she’d kill me if I turned a little Taylor Swift on. And not the lovey-dovey stuff. Her more angry songs. Something like “Picture to Burn.”
Snickering to myself, I open the gate and see all the people laughing and having fun. Yeah, I think she just might kill me if I change the song right now.
Wine. I need wine. And lots of it.
Three hours later I’ve had enough cabernet and so has Makayla that we’re both singing The Cure’s “Lovesong” karaoke style.
I guess Cam and Brooklyn had something to do. I didn’t really catch what, with all the noise and the distraction of watching couples hugging and kissing. But honestly, I don’t mind because I get to spend the night with Makayla.
This is the first night in so long I can remember not thinking about Keen since he dropped me like a hot potato. If you’ve ever had that happen to you, you know there are stages you go through—the initial pain, the “screw you,” the reflection, the rebound, the relapse, the hate, and then finally the acceptance.
Yep, I’m still in the hate phase. I hope soon I will be able to forget all about him and his wicked ways. Yet right now every time I slide into bed alone, my mind goes to him, and how much I hate him. I know Taylor Swift must have written a song about this very situation.
I need to spend some time really listening to her lyrics and find it.
The fire dies and the cool air forces us to move the party inside. Food is everywhere, and I don’t even care that chicken wing bones seem to be surrounding me. With a satin heart in my hand, I poke the bottom of each chocolate looking for the orange and raspberry ones.
After I find a pink one, I pluck it in my mouth. “Oh, God, this might be better than sex.”
Makayla, beyond drunk herself, grabs one and shoves it in her mouth.
“You didn’t even check to see if it has nuts,” I scold.