Better With You (Better Love 2)

I roll my eyes and smile. If he and I are going to keep up this text flirting, I might have to tell him to start condensing his messages. This firing squad of texts is a bit over the top.

My smile is huge the entire time I type out my response, and I can’t help the giggle that escapes when I hit send.

Me: I don’t need to thank you. It was mine first, and it belongs to me. If anything, you should be thanking me for convincing you not to continue your life of crime. And in the future, you’ll do well to remember something about me.

Unknown: What’s that?

Me: Nothing about me is vanilla.

I wait until I see the chat bubble dance on the screen before dropping my phone into the drawer of potholders and slamming it closed. Let’s let the big flirt sit with that for a while. He really has no idea who he’s playing with.

The entire time I measure, mix, and bake my latest cookie creation, my mouth is stuck in a smile, and it has nothing to do with the boy band throwback playlist I’m listening to.

Four dozen cookiesand two new drafted recipes later, I’m ready to collapse in my bowl chair with my book and wine. I hope Ivy gets home soon, so she can be my taste tester, but she’s spent the afternoon with our friend Kelley, so there’s no telling when she’ll show up. Those two drive me freaking bonkers. They’ve been friends for like nine years, and I’m pretty sure they’ve been in love with each other for most of them.

But, of course, they don’t know it.

Me, our friend Jesse, and basically anyone else who’s ever seen them together can tell they’re head-over-heels, disgustingly gone for each other, but they’re oblivious. It’s as entertaining as it is annoying. One of these days, if they don’t wise up soon, I might be forced to do something drastic—like lock them in a bedroom with a box of condoms and “Lovesick” by Banks on repeat.

I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with the box of wine we have in the fridge. Boxed wine is my new favorite thing. It’s the alcoholic beverage choice of frugal bitches like me and Ivy. Classy bottle taste for a reasonable cardboard price. And you get like three bottles worth of wine in one box. It’s amazing.

Just as I’m about to take my wine to the balcony, a buzzing sounds from the potholder drawer. Oh shit. I forgot that I tossed my phone in there. When I take the phone out of the drawer, a legit cackle escapes me.

Twenty-five notifications.

At first, I’m flattered, but then it’s immediately replaced with suspicion.

If these are all from Alex, that’s fucking creepy. I’ve watched enough serial killer documentaries with Ivy to know that stage-five clingers are a GIANT red fucking flag, especially this early on.

I take a deep breath, then a gulp of wine, and then I swipe at my screen to open my messages.

Oh, thank you, baby Jesus.

Two texts, two missed calls, and a voicemail are from my mom, and I delete them immediately.

I have a couple texts from Jesse, Kelley’s roommate and the fourth member of our small friend group, informing me that Kelley took Ivy out to teach her how to drive a stick shift this afternoon. Jesse and I do this often, keep tabs on Kelley and Ivy. We like to speculate on when they’ll finally pull their heads out of their asses and admit their feelings for each other. It started as a joke, but now J and I are weirdly invested.

I don’t do relationships because I’m hashtag jaded, and Jesse has his own issues, so now we focus our attention on the sexual tension between our other two friends. And I can’t speak for J, but I’d like to see Ivy and Kelley work out because at least then I’ll know that kind of love—the real, true kind—can exist outside of the stories on my e-reader. And if anyone deserves that kind of love, it’s Ivy. She’s sweet, and pure, and good.

Ivy’s love language is acts of service. It’s obvious from all the little stuff she does for us; she’s a nurturer by nature, our Mama Bear. She and Kelley are pretty evenly matched in that way. My love language is quality time. With myself. Because most people suck. And Jesse’s is...hell, I don’t even know. Are immature jokes and schoolyard taunts a love language? His text messages sure suggest they could be.

Jesse:5 bucks says they get into an argument that leads to a make out sesh.

Me:Argument is likely, but no way on the kiss. V has been preparing for this driving lesson for weeks. Nothin is gonna distract her from it.

Jesse:Yeah u right. So a *waving hand emoji* *Eggplant emoji* in the passenger seat?

Me:Perv.

Jesse:*dancing lady emoji* *praying hands emoji* *water emoji*

I laugh out loud as Jesse and I exchange a few more messages, his mostly emojis that take some brainpower to decipher, and then I switch over to our group text thread. V sent a selfie of her and Kelley in the front seat of a truck. She’s grinning proudly at the camera, and Kelley is, of fucking course, looking at her with a dopey love-drunk smile on his face.

Damn. They’re so cute I could barf.

I read through the texts and send a few of my own, telling Ivy that I can’t wait to hear about her NASCAR practice run, and then I close out of that thread and open the one I’ve been avoiding.

Alex has sent me a slew of texts, and none of them are selfies. Bummer.

Unknown:And what does that mean?

Unknown:Are you flirting?

Unknown:I think you’re flirting.

Unknown:Sundance, you can’t just send a text like that and then disappear.

I smirk. His reaction is exactly what I was hoping for when I sent my “vanilla” comment.

Unknown:You’re killing me, SD.

Unknown: Well here’s a confession for you.

Unknown: I already knew there was nothing vanilla about you.

Unknown:You’re the furthest thing from vanilla.

Unknown:Absolutely nothing about you screams ordinary.

My smirk transforms into a smile at Butch Cassidy attempting to spit game my way. I’d be flattered if I wasn’t sure he was feeding me a line. A good line, but still a line. I check the time stamp on his last text. Three hours ago. I think the guy’s waited long enough.