“What the fuck?”
“I know! Well, actually, he said I had a fat ass,” I whisper the cuss word and raise my eyebrows for emphasis.
Bailey snorts. “You do got a fat ass, though.”
I giggle and take a sip. “This is true.”
“Cheers to fat asses!” Bailey exclaims and holds her glass up to clink with mine.
“Why do guys do that, though? Resort to insulting a woman’s body if they don’t get what they want?” I muse with a huff. “And why does everyone act like fat is a dirty word? It shouldn’t be.”
“No, it shouldn’t be. And the guys who do that do it ‘cause they think that a woman’s appearance is the only thing valuable about them and they want to feel superior by doing the most damage in the shortest amount of time.” She flashes me a smirk. “Joke’s on them, though, because we’re wising up and realizing that we’re worth so much more than how men see us. And fat ass bitches like you and me? We’re gonna dismantle the patriarchy, one big dick dumbass at a time.”
“But, B, you don’t have a fat butt.”
She barks out a laugh.
“Revision! Fat ass bitches and skinny ass bitches are gonna dismantle the patriarchy!” She lifts her glass again. “Cheers to the rise of all ass-having women. Fuck the patriarchy.”
“To women!” We both take a giant gulp, and then Bailey’s face contorts with disgust.
“What a douche.” She shakes her head and I sigh.
“Yeppers.”
“So, you just took an Uber home?”
“I tried, but the wait time was crazy, so I called Kelley for a ride.”
Bailey gets quiet, and when I look over at her, she’s looking at me skeptically.
“What?”
“You called Kelley to come pick you up from a failed hookup,” she states for clarification.
“Yeah. I texted first. He was still awake. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Seriously, why is she looking at me like that?
Bailey sets her wine glass on the coffee table, and then meets my eyes. “Ivy Jean Rivenbark, that man is in love with you. And normally I’d say that’s his problem and not your responsibility, because it is his problem and not your responsibility, but you act like you don’t know.”
“You’ve been reading too many of your romance novels,” I say with a forced chuckle, trying to laugh it off. For being so cynical about her own relationships, Bailey certainly loves a good fictional love story. Now she’s trying to create her own with me and Kelley as the main characters.
“Maybe you need to start reading them,” she says point
edly, and I roll my eyes. “Ivy, you can’t tell me you don’t know that he’s in love with you.”
“He’s not in love with me, Bailey. We’re just friends.” I pick up my glass and take a drink, tracing my fingers over the etching on the side. “We’ve been friends forever.”
“V. He’s in love with you, and I’m pretty sure you’re in—”
“No.” I put my palm up and cut her off. “We aren’t having this conversation, B. I love you but listen, Kelley and I are friends. We’ve been friends since we were fourteen. The only time we weren’t friends was when we let hormones get in the way, and that cannot happen again. And I do not have the time, energy, or emotional stability to commit to a romantic relationship anyway. I have no desire to try, okay? We don’t see each other like that. We can’t. So please drop it. Okay?”
I hold my gaze firmly on her. I don’t blink. I don’t back down. This is a line for me; I will not cross it.
Finally, she nods and lets out a long sigh.
“Wanna watch a serial killer documentary?” she asks, and I silently send up a thank you that she took mercy on me and changed the subject.