A Brush with Love(26)
“Why are you talking to Alex?” Harper asked, turning her attention to Thu. This was new. And interesting.
“Nope. We’re not talking about me. We want details,” Thu said. Indira and Lizzie nodded in solidarity.
“There isn’t anything to tell. It’s hardly a date. We’re going grocery shopping.” They all stared at her.
“Grocery shopping? Is that code?” Lizzie asked, her face pinched in confusion.
“What could that possibly be code for?” Harper responded.
Lizzie gave Harper a mischievous smile and waggled her eyebrows. “Something along the lines of ‘tossing your salad’?”
“Should I even ask what that is?” When it came to Lizzie, the less details the better.
Lizzie gave the table an evil grin as she leaned in with a stage whisper. “It’s where, as a rigorous, sultry lover, you spread the butt cheeks of your partner nice and wide and give it a good, hard—”
Thu slapped a hand over Lizzie’s mouth as Rabbi Merow picked the worst possible moment to walk past their table. He tried to control his shock, and Harper offered a weak wave as he shook his head and continued past.
Harper pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tell me, Elizabeth—because I’m dying to know—which parts of my personality have ever given you the impression that, on a first date, I would be engaging in ass play.”
Indira gave a snort and buried her face in her hands while Lizzie shrugged. “It’s trendy with the kids these days.”
“That’s true,” Indira said through her giggles, cocking her thumb at Lizzie.
“And this”—Harper pointed her finger around the table at her friends—“is why I didn’t tell you. You’re all ridiculous. And not helpful.”
Her three friends cupped their hands around their mouths and booed, then dissolved into more laughter. When their giggles died down, Indira turned to Harper, her expression shifting to something more serious.
“Now here’s the actual reason you didn’t tell us: You don’t want to admit you like this guy,” Indira said. “Telling us about it would make it real, and you’d rather die than admit you’re human and have a crush on a hot guy and now can’t dedicate every single thought you have to school like the little cyborg you are.”
Harper flinched. “Wow, Indira.”
Her friends regularly teased her about her intensity over school, and it was rare for their poking to hit a nerve, but that had done the trick. Annoyance bubbled under Harper’s skin. While they knew Harper better than anyone, they didn’t have the right to act like they knew everything about this too. If Harper didn’t know what this was, how could they?
“Maybe I didn’t tell you because what would be the point? It’s not like it’s going anywhere. I’m moving in a few months—I don’t even know where yet, for fuck’s sake—so there is literally no sense in starting something. At. All. Or, maybe I didn’t tell any of you because you’re all annoying and meddling, and I knew you would involve yourselves and make a mess of it. I mean, heaven forbid I act like a big girl and do anything without consulting you three on every detail.” She shot them a dirty look.
“But you’re right, Indira, I’m the one with issues, even though none of you have had a relationship last more than three months. So please, tell me exactly how to handle this. You’re all experts.”
Harper sat back in her chair, not looking at her friends, her hands shaking as she folded her arms across her chest. Her heart thumped against her rib cage, the confrontation leaving an uncomfortable prickle along her skin. And she hated that. She hated that she couldn’t even indulge in righteous indignation without that pulsing sense of anxiety hovering right below the surface; anything upsetting her carefully controlled balance threatened to push her into full-blown panic.
Her friends gave her shocked looks. They all took a sip of their wine and stared down at their plates. A few tense minutes passed before Indira broke the silence.
“I’m sorry,” Indira said, giving Harper an even look. “We’re just excited because … well, he’s really hot.”
“So hot,” Lizzie agreed. “Like, no-hole-is-sacred level of hot.” All three of them gave Lizzie a double take. “Tell me I’m wrong,” she said.
Laughter dissolved the tension.
“Are we still going out after this?” Thu asked, taking a bite of food.
Lizzie squealed. “Let’s go to that new club on Chestnut and Nineteenth. I feel like dancing,” she said, shimmying her chest.
“Harper doesn’t do clubs,” Thu said, pretending to honk Lizzie’s tits.
“Harper doesn’t have to go,” Harper chimed in. She would so much rather go home and study than try to navigate a club, especially one that she hadn’t confirmed met her Going-Out Rules.
Rules were her life preserver in the choppy storm of anxiety and she clung to them with white knuckles.
Bars and restaurants needed tall ceilings and lots of windows.
Going out meant going early to avoid late-night crowds.
Claim a table on the outskirts, and always bring a friend willing to push through crowds to get to the bar.
Never leave home without the rules lest you wind up in a bathroom stall, panic pulsing at your temples and tears streaming down your face as you try to remember how to breathe, simultaneously praying someone finds you and saves you from the impending feeling of death, and praying no one ever witnesses your shameful and mortifying lack of control over your own emotions.