Maybe: Ugh. Fine. Bushwick, it is.
I grin and type out another response.
Me: That’s the spirit. And don’t worry, we’ll hydrate beforehand.
Maybe: That doesn’t make me feel better.
Me: That’s because the hydration is supposed to make you feel better AFTER you get drunk, silly. ;)
Maybe: You’re pushy as hell, but I have to admit, I miss you. I’m ECSTATIC that you’re coming home in September instead of December. Prepare yourself to be inundated with wedding tasks.
I smile at her words. While my time in Milan was supposed to last for an entire year, I managed to snag an internship with an Italian fashion designer who is opening a studio in New York.
Loro Gianni is eccentric, insane, but a fucking fashion genius. And, thankfully, he talked the dean into letting me complete my three-month internship with him in New York—my always and forever home.
Hell, if I’m being honest, Maybe and her fiancé Milo Ives’s wedding is one of the main reasons I did everything I could to relocate my internship.
Otherwise, I would’ve only had time to fly in for the wedding itself.
But now, I’ll be there for the bridal showers, the joint bachelor and bachelorette parties…pretty much everything.
The mere thought makes me giddy.
Me: God, I miss you too!!!! And I can’t wait to get the wedding celebrations started!!! I’d feel like an asshole of a maid of honor if I weren’t there for all the events.
Maybe: You know I would’ve understood.
Me: Yeah, but then I would have gotten emotional at the wedding and objected when Milo was saying his vows.
Maybe: OBJECTED?!
Me: Well, you know. Not to the actual marriage. Just to the wedding planning happening without me… So, it’s probably good I’m coming home. Saves you a lot of heartache in the end.
Maybe: HAHA. I’m worried Italy has hardened you.
Me: Well, I did say I haven’t had sex in nine months. That would harden anyone.
Maybe: LOL. Touché, friend.
Me: All right, you non-hussy, I need to go shake my ass at this kick-ass Italian nightclub and maybe, perhaps, possibly end my nine-month dry spell. But I’ll see you in a few weeks! Love you!
Maybe: Love you too!! Have fun and BE SAFE!
My phone back in my pocket after a text exchange much longer than intended, I scan the crowded space to find I’ve been left behind. Apparently unbothered by my slow, distracted walk, Pippa is closing in on the bar. A woman on a mission, she weaves in and out of the crowd, bumping into strangers without apology and bestowing the lovely blessing of a stiff-arm on a couple mid-kiss.
I politely skirt around dancers and clubgoers until I slip in between two very tall men and step up beside her.
“You in a bit of a hurry?” I ask, and she grins.
“This place is packed, and you were on your phone.” She shrugs. “I saw an opening, so I took it.”
“You mean you made an opening. I watched you break through that couple with moves Sean Phillips would be proud of.”
She laughs and bites her lip before tilting her head to her shoulder. “I have no idea who Sean Phillips is or what you’re talking about, but I already ordered us some drinks.”
“Remind me to never get in the way of you when you want to lose your inhibitions,” I remark dryly. “And Sean Phillips is a football player on the New York Mavericks.”
She rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue. “American football, bleh.”
“What did you ord—” I start to ask but stop when a handsome bartender with dark brown eyes slides shot glasses our way.
“Start a tab for me.” Pippa hands him her card, and I quirk a brow.
“For someone who never ever drinks, you seem to know your way around the bar.”
“I saw it in a movie with Brad Pitt once.”
I laugh at that. Saw it in a movie. She’s using Brad Pitt’s acting chops as real-world life lessons. Which only reminds me why we’re friends. She’s flipping adorable, and I’m a sucker for adorable.
I move my eyes to the counter and take inventory of what she ordered while the bartender starts a tab. One…two…three…four…five…
“Why are there six shots of tequila?”
“Because they’re so tiny. I watched someone down the bar order a tray full. I figured we’d each need at least three.”
“Pippa, honey—” Before I can finish what I’m saying, she lifts a shot glass and downs one. “Wait…you shouldn’t—” And then another.
Ah fuck.
Her face scrunches up in disgust. “Ugh. I think their tequila is bad or something.”
“Have you ever had tequila? Or any alcohol, for that matter?”
“No, not really.”
“Not even a sip of wine on Christmas or a glass of champagne at a wedding?”
She shakes her head.
Oh boy.
“My face feels numb. Is that normal?” she asks, just before pinching her nose and slugging back the third shot.
“Considering you’ve never had alcohol and just downed three shots of tequila like some kind of badass bitch, yeah, I think it’s safe to say that soon you’re not going to be able to feel your face at all.”
“So, tequila is strong?”
I nod my head slowly. “Uh-huh.”
“But those are so tiny, Lena. Surely, I can handle a few more.” She starts to lift her hand toward the bartender, but I reach up to stop its ascent.
“How about we go dance this off a bit before any more drinks are ordered?”
She nods toward my still-full shot glasses. “Pretty sure you need to drink your shots first, you wanker.”
Ugh. I hate tequila—the smell, the taste, and the burn it leaves in my throat after I’m done. But there’s no way I am going to leave my bubbly—and soon-to-be very drunk—English friend on her own, and I’m not going to leave these here for her to drink herself either.
That really only leaves me one option: woman the fuck up and down the shots.
One. Two. Three, down the fucking hatch. They leave absolutely no doubt as to why I hate tequila.
“Good Lord,” I mutter and look around for some salt and lime, only to come up empty-handed. “You didn’t get any limes with it?”
Pippa shakes her head. “I told him we didn’t need any.”
“I think you’re the only human being alive who can become an alcoholic on her first night of drinking.”
She rolls her eyes. “They weren’t that bad, Lena.”
“It might as well have been gasoline.”
“Stop being such a bloody pussy!” she shouts, grabs my arm, and starts dragging me to the center of the room. “It’s time to dance!”
Note to self: Keep an eye on Pippa tonight.
Two hours and another two shots for Pippa later and she’s in full-on dance mode. Shaking her hips and tits like she owns the joint. It only took one intense shimmy during “Gonna Make You Sweat” to understand what she meant—her boobs, left braless, would absolutely be a lethal weapon. I’m pretty sure the sweat between them even vaporized into a misty Mel Gibson mirage, they shook so hard.