The Highland Fling(2)

“When did Anita have a kid?” Dakota asks, completely oblivious to my pleading.

“Do you think I should add anything?” I whisper from the side of my mouth.

“Huh? Oh, uh . . .” She taps her chin. “Maybe something about His hair.”

“I don’t know what God’s hair looks like. Do you?”

“Uh . . . white and flowy?”

I look up toward the cracked ceiling. “And your hair is . . . magnificent. Do you use Herbal Essences?”

“I don’t think He needs to shower,” Dakota says, clicking on a picture of Anita’s baby to get a better look. “And He sure as shit isn’t using Herbal Essences.”

“Why the hell not?” I ask, sitting up and staring down at my friend.

“Because He’s God. Why use Herbal Essences when He created Paul Mitchell?”

Valid.

“What do you think He smells like?”

“Lightning bolts and cotton,” Dakota answers dreamily.

“He’s not Zeus.”

“He could—” Dakota sits up. Her back stiffening, her mouth falling open, her eyes widening.

Detecting that something huge is about to happen, I clasp my hands together. “Did He . . . hear us?”

Dakota shakes her head. “No, but check this out.” She turns her laptop toward me, and my eyes lock on a shared article from her crazy aunt Wendy—a perpetual oversharer of weird shit on social media. Ever wonder why you’ve found yourself caught up watching a video of an old-timey cowboy teaching you how to make huevos rancheros on a rusted metal garbage can top? It’s because of people like Aunt Wendy.

Trying to get my drunk brain to focus, I read the post out loud. “Help wanted. Looking for two friends to manage small town coffee shop in Corsekelly, Scotland for six months. No experience necessary, all expenses paid, including free accommodations. Applicants need a cheery disposition and a thirst for the Scottish Highlands.” I look at my best friend, eyebrows cocked. “You can’t be serious.”

“I have a thirst for the Highlands.”

“Do you even know where the Highlands are?”

“In Scotland.”

“Where in Scotland?”

“In . . . the Highlands.”

Rolling my eyes, I push the computer back onto her lap. “You’re drunk.”

“Bonnie, don’t you remember the results of your genetic testing? It said you were one-sixteenth Scottish. Don’t you want to visit the lands of your dearly beloved ancestors?”

I point my finger fiercely at her. “Don’t you dare throw my ancestry on the line like that. You know I love a genetically completed family tree.”

“Come on, this is the perfect opportunity.”

“Dakota.” I shake her. “Are you hearing yourself? You are asking to apply for a job in Scotland.”

She grows serious, and even though her eyes are glazed over from the tequila, she looks down at her hands. “I know it’s been a year since Isabella broke up with me, but it’s been difficult to move on.”

Oh . . .

I lean in slightly to catch the distraught look on my friend’s face. Maybe this really isn’t about me but . . . about her.

Isabella was Dakota’s first girlfriend.

Yes. FIRST. GIRLFRIEND.

Isabella was the girl who helped Dakota finally identify with herself.

And then Isabella went and broke Dakota’s heart.

First love is hard enough.

But first love that brings on the realization that you’re gay . . . now, that’s a whole other level.

“I can understand that.” I reach over and give her hand a squeeze. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to be in love and lose it.”

“It’s been hard.” She glances at her computer screen, moves the cursor over to “Apply,” and clicks on the link.

“Uh, what are you doing?” I ask, starting to panic that she might actually be serious about this.

“Applying.”

“Dakota—”

“Isn’t this exciting? We’re going to run a coffee shop in Scotland!” she says as she types her name into the application.

Wow, okay. I’ve heard of nervous breakdowns after serious breakups, but I’ve never witnessed one in person.

I need to proceed with caution.

“Oh, sweetie.” I pull her into a hug. “You’re delusional. Maybe I should lay you down and bring you some cake. I can put an order on DoorDash and have some sugary sweetness to you in twenty-five to thirty minutes.”

“I’m not delusion—”

“Shhh,” I whisper in her ear while gently pushing her back against the couch. “You poor dear. I should have seen the signs. Losing my job has really turned me into a blind friend, but I see you now.” I grab her chin and force her eyes to mine. “I see you, Dakota.” I pat her shoulder. “Now, you just lie here while I order the cake, and we can try to figure out how to handle all of this. Don’t worry—we’ll keep this mental crisis to ourselves.”

“I’m not having a mental crisis.”

“Oh, honey.” I wince. “That’s what everyone says when they’re going through a mental crisis.”