Dr. Stud

So, I must have gotten a good five hours of sleep in my own bed, plus a few hours in their bed, and that must be why I feel so rejuvenated, right? That is certainly the most logical explanation.

But I don't just feel rejuvenated, I feel amazing. Carefully I wiggle my hips, testing myself out. Even though I performed some astounding acrobatics yesterday, I feel fine. My nethers are little sore, a little roughed up, but I suppose that's to be expected. But my blood is pumping like never before. I feel like I'm on drugs. The really good stuff.

Smiling to myself, I arch my back. If I knew how to purr like a cat, I certainly would. After indulging a good, long, made up yoga pose, I fling back the sheet and slip to the floor. A shower would be wonderful right now. A long, steamy, scented shower. I wonder what kind of fancy soaps I have? I never use them. I'm always saving them for a “special” occasion. But the occasion never comes. I think they're in a basket in the linen closet…

But there goes my phone again. I realize it's been going off quite a bit. I should probably get that. Definitely.

For a moment, I weigh getting it before the shower or getting it after the shower. If I get it after the shower, then I'm going to come out of the shower feeling absolutely wonderful and then… who knows. Could be a buzzkill.

But if I get the phone now, anything that happens that's less than optimal can be washed away with stinky soaps.

Okay. I'll get it now.

“Did you read USA Today?” she asks me right away.

“Oh, good morning, Hannah,” I sigh, yawning and stretching some more, feeling magical. Did my skin get more taut? I wonder if I'm taller.

“I thought you writers had Google alerts set up for mentions of your name. Don't you? If not, I'm putting that in your job description.”

“Of course I have Google alerts set up,” I sigh. “I just haven't been checking my phone obsessively. But lucky me! Because here's you, calling me to tell me all about it. You're like a Hannah alert. Maybe I should change your contact ID to say alert.”

The line crackles. She doesn't say anything. Oh.

“That was funny,” I inform her. “You're supposed to laugh.”

“Did you tell Rob Meagher that Dillon is gay?”

I cringe. “Did I? I'm going to go with no. I did not tell him Dillon is gay. I mean, it wouldn't be any of my business if Dillon was gay… But I didn't say Dillon was gay.”

I roll back the tape in my mind, remembering that it might have come out that way. Did I mean it like that? Actually, I was going with the implication that Dillon was such a jerk that women didn't find him attractive. Somehow, I don't think Hannah will accept that as an alternative explanation.

“And did Dillon make some snarky comments about Rob's weight?”

“Oh, you'd have to ask him about that,” I shrug. “I mean, I doubt it, but I wasn't with him for every second —”

“Bella, tell me what our deal is.”

I open the linen closet door, enjoying the wafting smell of lavender, vanilla, bergamot, chamomile, seashell, cinnamon, and every other single spice in the known universe. Yes, it's definitely where the soaps are.

“Hannah, you already know our deal. I'm not going to repeat it for you,” I sniff. Was she always this bitchy? Is this a new development?

“Because the way I remember it, you were going to rehabilitate Emmet's reputation, by parading around with him and spinning some fairytale about your storybook romance. Is that a good summary?”

“The goodest summary ever.”

“Stop fucking around, Bella!”

I stand up straight, pulling the phone away from my ear for just a second to stare at Hannah's picture. There she is. My 16-year-old friend. Totally different than the jerk on the other end of the line right now. I need to remember the 16-year-old, the girl I adored. My friend. Maybe even my best friend, I don't know.

Right? That happened, right?

Reaching back, I'm sort of wondering if maybe she wasn’t my friend, not really. I mean, I was there when she was sick, but was she there when I was sick? I helped her to write her college essays, but when I needed help prepping for the ACT, she had a new boyfriend and always seemed to run out of time.

She's always been driven, much more than than I am. I suppose I'm just lucky to have a job about fifteen ladder rungs below hers. Her ambition obviously worked in her favor, while I'm stuck having to beg her for the chance to continue slaving away for her.

Hm. I'm going to have to give this a little more thought.

“Bella? What exactly happened last night?”