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By: Calliope “You did what?!” Sputtering, coughing, and waving his hand in the air. Fortunately, it didn’t take a lot of brain cells for her to realize that something was wrong. She wasn’t sure she had too many left after that third shot had gone down. “I kissed him.” “So?” She bit her lip and shook her head. “I kissed him HARD.” He closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed a hand over his face. “Why?” “Hell, I don’t know. Because he was there. Because it was easier than pretending there wasn’t anything more than friendship there. Because I’m sick of being platonic. Because something had to happen sooner or later.” She shrugged and began twirling her toothpick around in her glass. “Lots of reasons.” He sighed. “Was it right?” Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know. I thought it was. There could’ve been sparks. I was too drunk to tell.” “That sounds encouraging.” She groaned and drained her Cosmopolitan. For once, she had opted for one of the sweet, cute, girly drinks that her friends adored. Oddly enough, she found it bitter. “Give me a break. You know how I feel about him.” He sighed. “Well, hell, of course I do. It’s pretty fucking obvious to the rest of us. But the question isn’t whether or not I know how you feel about him. The question is whether or not you know how you feel.” Her voice was quiet as she flagged down the waiter and ordered a draft beer. “I know how I feel.” “Then there were sparks.” She closed her eyes, remembering the feel of his lips on hers while the world swirled around them in waves of light and sound. The way everything rippled had been romantic, in the least, and had definitely provided the answer to her three-word question. “Yeah. There were definitely sparks of some kind. Well, not so much sparks, really. Stardust.” He looked up from his whiskey sour long enough to manage a small smile. “You’re gone. You know that, right?” She furrowed her brow. “Nope. Not gone yet. Just packing.” He laughed. “Packing? Hell, girl, you’ve already spent an hour on the plane. The only thing you’ve got left to do is touch down.” She shook her head. “Nope. Not yet. Not gone yet.” He arched an eyebrow skeptically and watched her blush. Regardless of how much he wanted to justify everything, he knew that the crimson color to her cheeks had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol she’d consumed that night. “Yeah, you are.” He expected her to deny it again, but instead she smiled demurely. “Yeah, I am.” He tossed the rest of his drink back and rolled his eyes. “Fuck.” “What?” “He always gets the girl. Fucking always.” She shrugged, accepting her drink with a smile. “You’ll get yours. All in good time.” “Right. All in good time.” As he motioned to the waiter for another drink, he couldn’t help but
think about how much he’d come to hate waiting.
Part
Eleven: Drunk
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