Starfire(8)

I sighed. “Keith dragged me to the gym once, but he never made me feel fat. He said he used to be shallow, but I don’t know if I believe it. Whenever he looked at me, I felt like he was seeing my soul.”

Golden’s eyes widened. “Scary.”

Shayla leaned across the table and socked Golden on the arm. (I totally forget what a tomboy Shayla is until we’re out with smaller girls and she goes around punching them, like a dude.)

“Why scary?” Shayla asked. “Is your soul all crusty and foul?”

Golden laughed, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “We don’t want guys to know what we’re really like. Not until it’s too late for them to escape.”

Shayla tried to punch her arm again, but Golden jumped up from the chair and excused herself to the washroom.

“That girl has a dark side,” I said to Shayla once we were alone. “She practically told me to stay away from Adrian or she’d murder me in my sleep.”

“Did he do more than walk you home last night?”

“We’re just friends.”

“Blowjob friends or handjob friends?”

I pulled out some money for my portion of the bill and pushed the tray over to Shayla. “None of the above, which means I’ll be swept up in Hurricane Dalton. And I’m kinda looking forward to it.”

“But we hate him, right?”

“I’m willing to admit I may have overreacted just a bit to his movie script and those cheesy lines he fed me.”

“Peaches, I hate to break it to you, but…”

“What?”

Golden returned from the washroom, and the waiter came by to clear more dishes.

“I’ll tell you later,” Shayla said. “It’s probably nothing.”

As we gathered our purses and left the restaurant, I did wonder why she was being so cryptic, and if it had something to do with her removing my laptop battery, but then we walked outside and my attention was caught by a stylish woman slowly approaching in a convertible.

I recognized her as Dottie Simpkins, a seventy-two-year-old woman who gives charm workshops at the Beaverdale Community Center. She dyes her hair pink, and I’d like to say she doesn’t look a day over sixty, but my eyes work too well.

Dottie wore big sunglasses and a bigger grin. In the seat next to her was a rust-colored dog the size of a standard poodle.

“Hellooooooooo!” Dottie called out as she drove by slowly, waving at the three of us. We waved back and stood motionless on the sidewalk, as though we’d showed up in that spot, at that time, just to watch the very small parade of Dottie in her car.

“I want to be like that when I’m old,” Golden said.

“I want to be like that right now,” Shayla said. “But younger, and with a hot guy next to me.”

“You could do worse than a Labradoodle,” Golden joked. “They’re intelligent, devoted, and hypo-allergenic.”

“Those are the exact qualities I want in my next boyfriend,” Shayla said. “Also, I’d like for my next one to be gay. I think I could really commit to someone who won’t sleep with me.”

“Labradoodles are good for cuddling.”

“Golden, do you have puppies you’re trying to unload?”

“Did you know they were originally bred as guide dogs, but people really took to them as pets?”

I turned and gave Golden an appreciative look. You gotta love it when the topic turns to your friend’s field of experience, and they get to show off a little, but in a cool, understated way.

Golden worked as a veterinarian’s assistant, and was utterly happy with her career. She didn’t make vastly more money than me, but I envied the “realness” of her job. Unlike being a bookstore manager, people didn’t ask her what she was planning to do next.

We walked the four blocks to Peachtree Books, and I couldn’t help but gloat that Adrian had said it was three blocks, not four, and he was so, so, so wrong about that. I was right and he was wrong.

He was helping a customer when we walked in, so Shayla and Golden started browsing the new arrivals, and I grabbed some large bills from the register and crossed over to the bank.

When I arrived back at the bookstore with fives and rolls of coins, Adrian was entertaining the girls with a story about some idiot running through the forest in the dark.

He continued, “And then Peaches tripped over a tree branch and went splat on the path. She tried to blame poor, nearly-toothless Cujo for her clumsiness.”

Apparently, the idiot being discussed was me.

“Your dog attacked me!” I injected.

“Old Cujo can barely attack mushed-up dog food from a can.”

“He’s such a sweetheart,” Golden said. “I always enjoyed his checkups, and seeing your mom, but now you get to bring him to see me.”