Page 20 of Bend Toward the Sun
“Petty,” Temperance said, smiling, and Frankie kicked her under the table with a pointed boot.
Rowan tilted the neck of her beer bottle to point at Temperance. “Let’s not throw stones from our shoddily built glass houses, T.J. You’re the absolute queen of dumping guys for shitty reasons.”
“I resent that.” Temperance sipped her gin and tonic.
Frankie snapped her fingers. “The guy who reused coffee grounds.”
“Inexcusable. I should have had him arrested,” Temperance sniffed and sipped her drink.
“How about Musical Myles?” said Rowan.
Temperance choked on the gin and tonic. Rowan patted her gently between her shoulders.
Frankie leaned forward across the table. “Ooh. I don’t remember that one.”
“Myles happened after you’d moved back home for a while. Always had a booger that whistled in his sleep,” Temperance said. “No matter how much he blew his nose.”
“Nope. Wouldn’t have lasted a single night through that,” Frankie said. “I’d have put a pillow over his face.”
Temperance poked Rowan. “Please date someone so we can drag you for poor choices too.”
“Oh, see, I’ve cracked the code.” Rowan tapped a finger to her temple. “If you never date, you never have to break up.”
“You’re the only one at this table with any sense of self-preservation. Dating is like using the bathroom here at Buddy’s,” Frankie said. “Every one of the stalls has some kind of biological disaster inside. All the options suck, so you pick the option that’s least disgusting.”
Rowan clinked her beer against Frankie’s wineglass. “It’s like getting your back scratched by someone who is just, you know, a centimeter away from hitting the spot where it would really feel amazing if they could justget there. But they don’t, no matter how much direction you give them. Reality is never as good as the expectation.”
“Now you’re describing your sex life,” Temperance said with a smirk.
Rowan made a face and picked at the label of her beer bottle.
“Oh! Look!” Frankie said. “Picking the label means she’s sexually frustrated.”
Rowan rolled her eyes. “Really, Frank? Are we nineteen again?”
Frankie laid a hand theatrically across her collarbone. “I, for one,neverdrank alcoholic beverages when I was nineteen years old.” Then she snatched the last cheese stick from the tray between them. “Fuck it,” she moaned as she chewed.
“’Atta girl,” Rowan said.
A man approached their table with slicked-back hair, reeking of drugstore cologne. He clasped his hands on the back of their empty fourth chair. His smile flashed too many teeth, and he had a pair of sunglasses holding back his hair, like a headband.
“Hey, ladies,” he said.
“No,” Rowan and Temperance said in unison without diverting their attention from their drinks. Frankie shrugged and shot the man an apologetic look.
“That was mean,” Frankie said as the guy hustled away.
“He should’ve read the room. My Resting Bitch Face is pretty unmistakable,” Temperance said.
“Mine isIntentionalBitch Face,” Rowan said.
Around a mouthful of crushed ice, Temperance said, “You were nice to him, Frankie. Those big brown eyes and apologetic little shrug. He’s totally going to ask you for your number the next time you go to the bathroom.”
Frankie groaned. “Ugh. The ones who snipe you outside bar bathrooms are the worst.” She cut her eyes conspiratorially at Rowan. “So—what’s Harrison Brady’s story?” Her eyebrows and the tone of her voice had both lifted, the universal expression of innocence.
“Interesting pivot,” Temperance said, slowly.
Frankie tapped a finger on her lips. “I was aiming for the complete opposite of bathroom-lurker douchebag.”