I shake my head, laughing at her as I start prepping the veggies to go into my pasta primavera. After I’ve sautéed everything and added the pasta, I toss it with a bit more olive oil and some parmesan. “Kay, set the table,” I call over to her.
She looks over my shoulder and complains, “I can’t eat that. You put cheese in it.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper to her. “I won’t turn you in to the vegan police. We’ll pretend it never happened.” I serve up some pasta onto plates for the kids.
I hear the fridge open, followed by a squeal from behind me. “Score,” she squeals, taking out one of her frozen meals from the freezer. “Look! Tofu ravioli! Saved!” She does a little dance on her way over to the microwave, raising her hands in the air and shaking her ass as she pops it in. “Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah!” She continues dancing till the microwave beeps.
She pulls it out, peeling off the filmy plastic cover, and waves it under my nose. “Smells so good, right?”
I raise my eyebrows and nod yes, but I’m totally lying. Throughout the meal, the kids tell me about their day. Rachel tells me that today someone threw up in class because someone else farted. Apparently, this is hilarious to her, since she is in stiches about it as she retells the story.
By the time eight o’clock rolls around, I’ve got the kids bathed and tucked into their beds. I’m ready to pass out, but I come down the stairs to lit candles and a full glass of a crisp, perfectly chilled white wine. “Aww, if you weren’t my sister—and I were into chicks—I’d make you my woman,” I swoon, grabbing my glass and curling up on the couch with my feet under me.
“So, tell me about this boss of yours?” she prompts as she sips her own wine.
“Oh, where do I start?” I close my eyes as I try not to picture him staring at me. Trying even harder to not picture him looming over me. Definitely trying really, really hard to not picture him taking off his clothes while he looms over me and stares.
“Good-looking?” she asks.
I nod my head yes and finish off my glass of wine in one long, satisfying drink. I pick up the bottle, pulling the cork out with a pop, and pour myself another glass. “Too good-looking.”
“Fit or chunky?” she asks, and now I know what she’s doing. Small questions now, big discussion later.
“Fit,” I answer, pausing to sip another glass that’s already half drained. “Very fit.” I think the wine is hitting me pretty fast, because I look around next before I whisper, “I think he has a six pack.” Then I finish the remaining wine in my glass.
“Hair color? Eye color?” She fills up my glass again.
“Brown and hazel-green with gold specks.” I drink a little more.
“Facial hair? Would you get a burn from his beard or not?”
I look up and think I blush a bit. “Depends on the time of the day. He was clean-shaven this morning, but he had a good five-o’clock-shadow going by three o’clock.” I drop my head back on the back of the couch and close my eyes. Seeing his eyes right away, the smirk he gave me, the way he asked about my husband, not swallowing before I answered. Then his eyes suddenly lighting up with mischief.
“You like him?”
My eyes snap open as I turn to her. “No! No, I don’t. Absolutely not. I don’t like him at all.”
She giggles as she takes another sip. “He hit my freaking car, Kay, and then the asshat asked me if I was drunk,” I plead my case. “Drunk at fucking eight a.m.”
“He’s gotten under your skin! There hasn’t been anyone who’s pushed you this far. Well, there was Pacey from Dawson’s Creek…”
“Hey!” I point at her. “Joey went sailing with him all summer! Just because Dawson is there and crying, she thinks she should be with Pacey. He was always her choice.” I pour myself another glass, spilling a bit as I do it.
“Do you think he manscapes?” she asks, putting her glass down on the table, while I just down another one.
“I have no idea, but I would guess it’s probably manscaped. I mean, who doesn’t manscape these days?” I look over and wonder.
“Some like to be free and let things be natural; there is nothing wrong with that. Don’t judge. Well, unless you have to suck his dick, then by all means, you put your foot down. You don’t need to be choking on long pubic hair. In fact, if you think it isn’t, then just run. Run fast, like he’s waving a bomb in front of you.”
I nod at her. I should probably be taking notes. I feel like I should be taking notes so I can remember this.
“Shoes?”
“Nice. Black ones.” I look at her, my eyes opening wide. “And clean. Very nice.” I hate when guys don’t have clean shoes; it’s like having dirty feet. Ewww.
“Teeth? Straight? Crocked? White? Stained? Stinky breath?”
I tilt my head to the side and remember if he smiled today. I saw him smirk, I saw him glare, I saw his jaw muscle tick, but I’m not sure I saw his teeth. “I don’t know.”
“Big hands?”
“Oh yeah, so big.” I open my hands wide to make her see how big, but I shake them a bit “This big.” I motion with my hands, making big circles.
“You think he has a big dick?” I stop moving.
“He would have to. You can’t be that good-looking and have a small penis. Actually, maybe that’s why he’s such an asshole! His penis is small. He has small penis syndrome.” I look at her, waiting for her input. “I mean, why else would he be smoking hot and an asshole, unless…”—I giggle—“unless it’s so big it hurts when he walks.” I put my hand over my
