Maybe Now (Maybe 2)

Wow. We’re really doing this. And wow. I’m actually a little bit excited. I shake my head. “I’ve never met a slice of pizza I didn’t like.”

Bridgette puts the phone on the bar and puts it on speaker as she opens the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of wine. She hands it to me, expecting me to open it, so I take it and look for the bottle opener.

“Pizza Shack,” a guy says, answering her call. “Will this be carry-out or delivery?”

“Delivery.”

“What can I get you?”

“Two large pizzas with everything. One thick crust, one thin.”

I open the wine bottle while she continues to order.

“Do you want all the meats?”

“Yeah,” Bridgette says. “Everything.”

“You also want feta cheese added?”

“I said I want everything.”

There’s a tapping sound, like fingers against keys while the guy takes a moment to enter the order. “Do you want pineapple?”

Bridgette rolls her eyes. “I’ve said everything like three times. All the meats, all the vegetables, all the fruits. Whatever you have, just put it on there and bring us the damn pizza!”

I pause and glance over at her. She makes a face at me like she’s on the phone with the biggest idiot in the world. Poor guy. He doesn’t ask her any more questions. He takes her address, and she gives him Warren’s debit card number before she ends the call.

I’m curious to see what kind of pizzas we’re about to get. I pray that restaurant doesn’t have sardines or anchovies. I pour two glasses of wine and hand Bridgette one. She takes a sip and then folds her arms over her chest, holding the wine glass to her lips as she looks me up and down.

She’s really pretty, in a sexy way. I can see why Warren is so drawn to her. They really are the most interesting couple I’ve ever met. And when I say interesting, I don’t necessarily mean that as a compliment.

“I used to hate you,” Bridgette says, matter-of-fact. She leans against the bar and takes another drink of her wine.

So casual, like this is how people are supposed to interact with other people. She reminds me of one of my friends from childhood. Her name was Tasara, and she said anything and everything that was on her mind. I swear, she spent more days in detention than she did in class. I think that’s why I was drawn to her, though. She was mean, but she was honest.

It’s one thing when you’re mean and you lie. But it’s a lot more endearing when you’re just brutally honest.

Bridgette doesn’t seem like the type to waste time on lying, and for that reason, her comment doesn’t offend me. And if I’m going to dissect her words, I have to acknowledge that her sentence was past tense. She used to hate me. That’s probably the best compliment I’ll ever get from her.

“You’re starting to grow on me, too, Bridgette.”

She rolls her eyes, then walks past me to the cabinet below the sink. She reaches for the Pine-Sol and then grabs two shot glasses. The wine isn’t enough?

She pours the shots, and as she hands me one, she says, “That wine isn’t strong enough. I get really awkward when people are nice to me. I’m gonna need liquor for this.”

I laugh and take the shot glass from her. We raise them at the same time, and I make a toast. “Cheers to women who don’t need their boyfriends in order to have a good time.” We clink our shot glasses together before downing the liquor. I don’t even know what it is. Whiskey, maybe? Whatever. As long as it does the job.

She pours us another shot. “That toast was way too cheerful, Sydney.” We hold up our glasses again, and she clears her throat before speaking. “Cheers to Maggie and her mad skills at remaining friends with both of her ex-boyfriends, to the point that they are somehow still at her beck and call, even when sex isn’t involved.”

I’m dumbfounded as she clinks her glass against mine and then downs her shot. I don’t move my shot glass. When she sees her words made me speechless, she pushes my shot glass toward my mouth and uses her fingers to tilt it up. I finally down it.

“Good girl,” she says. She takes the shot glass from me and hands me my wine glass. She pulls herself up onto the bar and sits cross-legged. “So,” she says. “What do girls do when they hang out like this?”

She is so unlike anyone I’ve ever spent time with as an adult. She’s like an entirely different class of animal. There are amphibians, reptiles, mammals, birds, fish—and then there’s Bridgette. I shrug and laugh a little, then pull myself up onto the kitchen bar across from her. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a girl’s night, but I think we’re supposed to bitch about our boyfriends while we talk about Jason Momoa.”

She cocks her head. “Who is Jason Momoa?”

I laugh, but she looks at me like she’s clueless. Oh, my God. She’s serious? She doesn’t know who Jason Momoa is? “Oh, Bridgette,” I say with pity. “Really?”

She still has no clue who I’m talking about. I grab my phone, but don’t feel like jumping off the bar to enlighten her. “I’ll text you his picture.”

I find a picture of him and text it to her. I’ve only ever sent her one text in the history of knowing her. Sending her a second one practically makes us best friends now.

When I hit send, I go back to my messages and open up a missed text from Ridge. He sent it five minutes ago.

Ridge: Just letting you know that Maggie didn’t want to stay at the hospital tonight so she talked Warren into helping her sneak out. We’re taking her home and we’ll probably stay there just to make sure she’s fine. Are you okay with that? Also, are you having fun with Bridgette?

I read his text twice. I want to be casual about it all, despite my warring emotions, but I’m scared if I’m too casual, he’ll run to her anytime she misses him. But if I’m not casual enough, I’ll be disappointed in my inability to empathize with Maggie’s situation. I don’t know how to respond, so I do the unthinkable and look up at Bridgette.

“Ridge says they’re taking Maggie home. She left before she was discharged. Now he and Warren are probably staying the night at her house.”

Bridgette is staring at her phone. “That’s shitty.”

I agree. But I don’t know which part she thinks is shitty. Maggie asking them to come when it doesn’t seem like a medical emergency? Ridge saying they might stay the night? Or the entire situation as a whole?

“Does it ever bother you that she and Warren are so close?”

Bridgette immediately lifts her head. “Fuck yeah, it bothers me. Warren flirted with her every time she was here. But he also flirts with you and every other woman he comes across. So, I don’t know. For the most part, I trust him. Besides, my Hooters uniform would slide right off that shapeless figure of hers, and tha

t uniform is Warren’s favorite part about me.”

That explanation was going in such a good direction before it took a nosedive. I don’t even know why I asked how she reacts to their situation, because theirs is so different from ours. Warren dating Maggie for a few weeks when she was seventeen hardly compares to Ridge spending six years of his life with her up until a few months ago.

Bridgette must see the worry in my expression while I stare back down at the text. “I really don’t think you should stress about it,” she says. “I’ve seen how Ridge is with Maggie and I’ve seen how Ridge is with you. It’s like comparing chopsticks and computers.”

I look at her, confused. “Chopsticks and computers? How is that—”

“Exactly,” she says. “You can’t compare them because they’re incomparable.”

That…somehow…makes complete sense. And makes me feel so much better. I think about the glitter bomb and how Bridgette smiled at me and Ridge when we were laughing together on the floor. I can’t believe I’ve never hung out with this girl before. She’s actually not so mean when you peel back all the layers of…mean.

“Holy. Shit.” Bridgette is staring at her phone, and based on how she says those two words, it can only mean one thing. She opened the pic I just sent. “Who is this exemplary specimen of man that has somehow never been introduced into my life?”

I laugh. “That is Jason Momoa.”

Bridgette brings her phone up to her face and licks her phone screen.

I cringe and laugh at the same time. “You’re as gross as Warren.”

She holds up her hand. “Please don’t mention his name while I stare at this man. It’s ruining my moment.”

I give her a moment to Google image search him while I finish off my glass of wine and reopen my text from Ridge. I type out a response to him and try to avoid the elephant in the room. Or would it be elephant in the phone, since Ridge and I aren’t in the same room?