Fuck It (Yama Yama)

“Kasha is your friend because I married her,” he says dryly. “It’s completely different.”

“No, it’s not. Friends don’t date your siblings, so either she and I can’t be friends, or you have to get divorced.”

“What the hell is bringing all this on? Why are you calling me at almost midnight to demand I divorce my wife because she’s your friend?”

I need music. I’m on the verge of tears. I’m not sure if I’m deranged, furious, or just humiliated by the worst day in my adult life.

“I might be able to have good sex now, but I doubt I will find out anytime soon! And I blame you, because it’s less embarrassing than dealing with rejection.”

“What the—”

I hang up again and release a calming exhale, staving off the tears.

Fortunately, the car is stopping in front of my house, and I thank my pregnant Uber driver before apologizing to her again. Then bid her good luck with her baby daddy/granddaddy issue.

The light is still on when I walk into the house, and Lydia sits in the living room, watching the TV she brought with her when she moved in. She glances at my bare feet, and her brow furrows.

“Forget your shoes at work?”

Apparently, Kasha didn’t tell her what happened after she left.

“Is there really such a thing as girl code?” I ask her.

She hesitates like she’s confused, then slowly she nods.

“What is it?”

“It’s a lot of different things,” she says cautiously. “Like, you can’t buy the same shoes as your bestie unless they give you the okay. You always hate the ex. And you tell a girlfriend she looks amazing even if she looks one step closer to death. That’s just some of it.”

This is why I’m not social. There are too many requirements, and I’m already years behind.

Just as I open my mouth to try and figure out how to tell her about Anderson, our front door swings open, and Bobby Jo walks in holding a large cake.

She beams at us.

“I figured since you girls got some today, you might appreciate something sweet,” she tells us with a huge smile.

How is she so thin if she eats so many sweets?

“I didn’t get laid,” I grumble, going over to look at the cake as she pulls away the—

My thoughts are broken up when I glare at the cake in front of me.

“A penis cake?” I ask dryly.

She nudges me with her elbow. “Oh, yeah. A big penis cake. Tell me that guy has a big one. I’ll be devastated if it’s small.”

I hate my life.

“I repeat; I didn’t get laid,” I tell her, curiously looking at the penis. Normally her icing skills are unparalleled. She can paint the fibers of a tampon in enough detail to make you concerned you’re about to have a wad of cotton in your mouth.

“You messed up the tip a little bit,” I tell her as Lydia comes to the table.

“How so?” Bobby Jo asks.

Lydia points to the tip. “I’m not really sure what that’s supposed to be.”

“Oh! It’s an uncircumcised penis,” Bobby Jo states proudly.

Of course it is.

“I’ve always enjoyed a little foreskin. Thought you girls might too,” she tells us.

Lydia chokes, and I lean forward, dipping my finger into the icing. Bobby Jo turns and struts out without another word.

“Does she do this often?” Lydia asks me.

I nod absently, dipping my finger into the icing again, and peer up to find Lydia watching me with her eyebrows arched. “Foreskin?” I offer, holding my finger up.

She rolls her eyes. “Sure. Why not?”

“So the point is that the beer is the beer he was drinking when he graduated college, then met his wife, and then it was the beer he drank when he celebrated his first kid—”

“It’ll be a quick flick to all of life’s most important moments, and the beer will take on a different meaning the older he gets,” Anderson says, interrupting Tommy, who is a sexist prick from hell.

Tommy clicks the end of his pen, studying the ten frames that are on the large wall monitor inside the massive conference room.

“In other words,” I state before Tommy can speak again, “it’ll be like the beer was with him on this journey. But we’re limiting it to special occasions because we don’t want him to look like an alcoholic.”

Tommy shakes his head. “This is too deep for a beer campaign. People drink for fun. Not for life-changing events.”

“For this specific account, this campaign is as perfect as they come. They’ve never been party-people advertisers,” I argue.

Tommy leans up on his elbows, and Anderson reclines in his own chair, studying Tommy like he’s waiting for something. Anderson’s eyes haven’t found mine all day.

Personally? I’m thrilled for that. Because I feel like a complete idiot at this juncture in my life. And I still haven’t told Lydia about him, because I’m pretty sure that’s wrong to girl code.