Just Pretend (Love Comes To Town)

“I was just there two months ago,” I remind her.

“Two months for a fast-growing plant with a grow light and fertilizer is like two human years,” Josie informs me officiously. “Anyway, while Wynona might need to do shots until the world is spinning and she barfs out all her relationship trauma, I, on the other hand, am not sure I can tolerate another last night so soon. My head is still pounding, although maybe it’s the four Advils I popped.”

“Four?” I almost yell. “Josie, I told you, I did a research paper on them, and—”

“I know, blah blah blah, health concerns, blah,” she grumbles. “Can we just focus on Wynona how we were before?”

“Fine,” I say grudgingly. “Anyway, what about a girls’ night tonight? We can watch one of the Scary Movies, and I can pick up some charcoal face masks too.”

“Ooooh,” Josie says. “Those the ones that hurt?”

“You betcha,” I say, wincing even as I smile at the thought. I actually heard of them first from Peyton, before we stopped talking. “The ones that rip all your gross blackheads out. Our pain is our skin’s gain.”

“Count me in,” Josie says, even though her skin is flawless enough to be used in a skin cream ad. “And Wynona too. She could do with some pain that’s not in her heart.”

“I’ll get her her own Doritos bag too,” I suggest.

“Yeah,” Josie says. “You do that. I’ll get her there. She was muttering about feeling sick today, but we both know it’s because she had the brilliant idea to have Fuzzy Peaches for lunch and an eggnog after that.”

We chuckle.

“Alright,” I say, feeling better already. Being around the twins has that effect on me. “I’ll head out and pick up those masks. See you at eight?”

“Holdddd up,” Josie cuts in. “How about Wynona picks up the masks? She’s got enough money to buy us a charcoal mask factory, after all.”

“Josie,” I grumble. I know where this is going, and I don’t like it. “They’re, like, three dollars each. And the pharmacy is across the street from me.”

“I know, but…”

“Josie!” I snap. “I’m not poor!”

I exhale. “OK, I am poor, for now. But I can still afford stupid charcoal masks.”

“OK,” Josie says, a defensive edge to her voice. If she were here, she’d be throwing up her sparkly colorful-nailed hands. “Just trying to help.”

“I know, and I appreciate it, I’m just…” I’m not sure what the word is, but I settle on “stressed, is all.”

“And I told you, anytime you want to head over to the nursery while I’m here, and—”

“Sorry, but digging through the wormy dirt and hoping that whatever new pot I plop the plant into doesn’t kill it isn’t my idea of relaxing,” I say drily.

Josie sighs. “OK, fair enough. Well. Your birthday is coming up and that new spa is almost open, so…”

“That might be more up my alley,” I admit, my smile forming around the words. “Now, gotta go! The lines at the pharmacy get insane around 4:30, and I don’t want to wait while some crazy person argues with the cashier over the price of gum.”

Josie chuckles. “See ya.”

“See ya.”

I get to the pharmacy just in time to avoid the rush, although I do encounter a grumpy teenage cashier with hair bleached within an inch of its life who is so done with work. So done with work that she somehow manages to ring the masks in at a dollar apiece and, when I point out her mistake, just shrugs with a promising “Whatever.”

So I get three masks for the price of one and head back to my place thinking that today might not be so bad after all. All I need is the tiniest, slightest hint of an actual interview, and then…

Just like that, he comes back into my head.

Six foot something tall, broad shoulders. A smirk that knows what it wants.

Let me make it up to you…

And me, answering in my head what I never did in person: Don’t mind if you do.

I give myself a little shake. If I’m going on mental excursions to la-la what-if land, it’s clearly time for me to do a pre-friend clean of my place. Which includes moving my laptop away from the couch and arranging the chip bags in a line.

There. Done.

The twins arrive a little under an hour later. Wynona, sure enough, looks about as glum as last night before we went drinking.

“He texted me,” she says lugubriously, after finishing her first glass of wine and starting on her second. “Wants me to stop texting him.”

“Huh?” I say. “But wasn’t he the one who texted you?”

Her eyebrows leap as her blue eyes assume a fearsome expression. “He plays mind games, Sierra. Mind games.” Another sip. “Men. They rip out your heart and blame you for bleeding on the floor.”