Page 76 of Badd Ass
“You don’t have to want the same thing I want. You just have to keep being my best friend, even if I never lose the baby weight and start watching daytime talk shows.”
“I draw the line atThe View, Mare. You start watching that, we’re through.”
I surreptitiously removed the Sharpie’s cap, reached out, and swiped the black tip across the back of her hand. “You’re stuck with me for life, ho. If you marry Brock, we’ll be sisters.”
“Hey now, I’m still getting used to the idea ofdatinghim,” she said, taking the Sharpie from me and turning my errant line into an interesting design.
“It’s been three months, you lunatic.”
“And it’s still fucking weird.”
“What’s weird about it?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, everything. When I’m not around him, I miss him, but then sometimes I get the urge to do something impulsive, like I used to. But then I remember Brock, and I don’t do it, but I’m still thinking about it. Like, I see a hot guy at the bar or something, and the instinct is to hook up with him, or do a bathroom B-J or something, just for fun. But then I remember Brock, and I don’t. When I’m with him, I can’t imagine life without him. And that’s weird enough as it is. And sometimes we just…want totally different things, and I don’t know how to reconcile the differences.”
“Like what?”
She lay down on the floor and stared at the ceiling. “Sex, for one thing. When we’re fucking, it’s literally mind-blowing. But I like…other stuff, and he doesn’t. He says he’s willing to try new things, but never actually ends up trying anything with me. Or family, we just have different ideas about family. I’m estranged from my parents, mainly my dad, and Brock just doesn’t understand how I won’t take the first step to reconciliation. I get that he lost both his parents and would do anything to have them back, but that’s not my situation. And he’s always harping on it. It drives me nuts, because I didn’t do anything wrong, so I’m not going to apologize, and that’s what Brock keeps telling me I should do.”
“If Brock is worth it, then you’ll figure it out.”
“It’s not about him being worth it or not, it’s just…in some ways we’re completely different types of people and I don’t know if we can bridge those differences.” She sniffled, swiped a finger underneath her eyelid. “Which just sucks, because I really,reallylike Brock.”
I hugged her. “Remember what you told me about keeping an open mind?” I squeezed her hard. “Time to take your own advice.”
“I know. But advice is easy to give and hard to follow.”
“Just take things one day at a time, and don’t be a chicken.”
“I’m not a chicken, I just—”
“Bock,” I clucked, imitating a chicken, bobbing my head forward. “Bock, bock…bockbockbock.”
“Shut up, stupid. That doesn’t even sound like a fucking chicken.”
“Bock-bock, bock-bock.”
She swiped at me with the Sharpie, and I ducked out of the way, but then she was chasing me around the apartment, trying to draw on me with the marker. So I grabbed another Sharpie and chased her back, which turned into a Sharpie war…
When Brock showed up a few minutes later, both Claire and I were covered from fingertips to elbows in black Sharpie marks, with a few on our faces. He stood in the doorway watching as we chased each other around, cackling.
“Did I come at a bad time?” he asked.
Claire stopped, capping the marker. “Nope. Just having a little marker war.”
He frowned. “You two know that’s permanent marker, right? It’s not going to come off for days.”
Claire kept the marker behind her back, approaching Brock as if for a kiss. “It’s just a little fun. It’ll wash off.”
“Eventually.” Brock said, eyeing her suspiciously.
He should have been suspicious, too, because she was sneakily working the cap off as she sidled closer to him. And then, right as he was millimeters from her lips, she flashed her hand up and stamped a dot right on the tip of his nose.
“Gotcha!” she shouted, and then shrieked as Brock swept her off her feet in a snakebite fast movement.
He snatched the marker from her, pinned her arms to her sides with one arm, and bent her backward over his knee. “My turn,” he said, his voice a deep, hot rumble.
“What are you doing?” Claire demanded, wriggling.