Hosed (Happy Cat #1)(69)
Ever since thirteen-year-old Libs spent months teaching me how to crochet when I was housebound my sophomore year of high school—keeping me company and furthering my yarn-based education while we watched 80s movies and debated important things like whether Better Off Dead or Just One of the Guys was the superior underrated teen flick of that particular decade—I’ve had a chink in my armor where the youngest Collins sibling is concerned.
She sees through me. Every damned time.
When I had a shitty first half of my first season with the Badgers five years ago, Libby was the one who noticed I was being eaten alive by self-doubt and talked me back from the edge. When my charity was getting audited by the IRS, Libby realized I wasn’t nearly as chill about the whole thing as I was pretending to be and sent me a knight’s helmet she’d crocheted and a note promising that everything would work out. And when Sylvia and I had a pregnancy scare last summer, Libby was the only person I told.
Hearing Libs say that I could absolutely handle being a dad had made me a little less terrified. Not that I’d believed her, but hearing that trying your best and loving your kid is all that really matters from a woman who spends every day with a classroom full of rug-rats was comforting.
But I don’t want to be comforted right now. I want to get through the rest of this party and then hide out at home and lick my breakup wounds in private. So I plaster on a smile and hope it’s too dark for Libby to see how shitty I feel.
“Hello, birthday boy!” Laura throws her long arms around me, hugging me hard enough to make my breath rush out with an oof as she crushes my ribs, reminding me she’s also freakishly strong when she’s three sheets to the wind. “I love you, Justin. I’m so glad we’re still best friends. Let’s go do happy-birthday shots on the roof to celebrate!”
“We’re already on the roof.” I grunt again as she hugs me even tighter.
“Yes, we are, and as high up as anyone needs to be right now,” Libby agrees, meeting my pained gaze over her sister’s shoulder, her brown eyes anxious. Clearly, she’s also aware that her big sis has entered the bad-decision-making portion of the evening and should be monitored closely until she’s home in bed.
“No, the real roof, the one through the locked door behind the DJ booth.” Laura points a wobbly hand toward the stairwell on the other side of the dance floor, then twists her long red hair into a knot on top of her head. “I’ve been practicing my lock-picking skills so I’ll be ready when I quit PR to become a spy.”
“As one does,” I observe dryly.
“Exactly!” Laura jabs a bony finger into the center of my chest. “See, you get it. So let’s do this. We’ll break the lock, climb the stairs, and be the highest things in downtown. Get shots and meet me there. Or maybe we should stick with martinis.” She moans happily as she wiggles her fingers in the general direction of the bar. “Those Thai basil martinis are so amazing! Perfect with the sushi. Like, seriously brilliant. Sylvia did a bang-up job with the catering, Jus. Especially for a woman who looks like she hasn’t eaten since last Christmas.”
“Laura, hush,” Libby whispers, nudging her sister in the ribs with her elbow.
Laura bares her teeth in an “oh shit” grimace before smacking herself on the forehead. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I forgot about the storming out and knocking over a tray of drinks on her way out of the party thing. Are you two okay?”
“We’re fine,” I say, cursing silently. So much for avoiding this particular conversation. “She just decided it wasn’t working for her. It’s no big deal.”
“But breaking up on your birthday sucks.” Laura’s lips turn down hard at the edges. “And I thought she was one of the nice ones. I mean, I didn’t know her that well, but she seemed nice.”
“She was nice.” I take another too big drink of my scotch. “And now she’s gone. But she hadn’t even unpacked her boxes yet, so it shouldn’t take long to move them all out.”
“That’s right. I forgot you two had moved in together. Bet that makes you want to keep drinking, huh?” Laura reaches back, putting an arm around Libby, hugging her much shorter sister closer as she not-so-subtly tries to steal Libby’s martini.
Libby, who I suddenly realize is looking very un-Libby-like in a tight black tank top and a pair of leather pants that cling to her curvy thighs, huffs and swats Laura’s hand away. “Enough! Stop using displays of affection to try to steal my drink.”
“Why? It worked last time,” Laura says, grinning wickedly.
“Well, it’s not going to work this time. I’m keeping my martini.” Libby narrows her eyes, which are ringed in heavy black liner and some silver glittery stuff that emphasizes how enormous they are. It’s a look that’s way more rock-star than kindergarten teacher and also decidedly…odd. For her, anyway.
I can’t remember the last time I saw Libby wearing makeup or tight clothing. She’s a “layers of linen draped around her until she looks like an adorable bag lady or a hippie pirate” kind of girl. I’m used to the Libby who wears ruffly dresses, clogs, and crocheted sweaters, and totes her knitting bag with her everywhere she goes.
This new look is so unexpected that I’m distracted long enough for Laura to snatch my scotch right out of my hand.