gossip blogs and headlines.
DQBs were spent dispelling fiction from fact.
Luna filled us in on her latest dating escapades. She was sugary sweet beneath her flawless vegan exterior. But being busy and constantly on brand, she always seemed to attract six-packed, hemp-wearing yoga and surf instructors with names like Kale.
Cam gave us the non-specifics about a new government contract she’d landed. And Daisy told us about the yacht flotilla she was joining for a long weekend in the Bahamas.
“Enough about my fabulous single life,” Daisy said. “Tell us more about Sexy Pants Price.”
Ruby DeeLicious, a petite queen in a rainbow corset and fishnet stockings, led a group of women to the open table next to us.
“They’re here,” Luna hissed in delight.
There were three reasons we liked Mordecai’s. One, the omelets were perfection. Two, Lady Raquel and company were too fabulous for words. Three, the romance novelists.
Three women strolled past the table in the midst of a number of different conversations. The first, in turquoise glasses, was nearly bouncing out of her own skin. “So then, I was like of course a blow job is the answer!” she yelped at two times the appropriate decibel.
The next woman was taller and dressed in pajama pants that were in desperate need of laundering. She was swearing at her phone. “I told the kids that if they didn’t stop farting in each other’s faces I was going to take their Legos. Now they’re texting me sad selfies promising a fart-free weekend.”
“Don’t fall for it,” the third woman advised. She was wearing a Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death t-shirt. “They mean it now, but they’re just going to get hopped up on cereal, and all good judgment goes out the window.”
“How have you survived homeschooling?” The first woman asked.
“My kids are abnormally good. Like we’re actually concerned. Now, back to the blow job…”
They slid into the booth next to us, and we pretended not to eavesdrop on every word.
“Where’s my favorite?” I asked in a low voice. “I hope she’s not on deadline again.”
“Agh! Sorry I’m late. Apparently, I don’t know how clocks work.” Another woman still wearing sunglasses bounded up to the booth. Her sweaty workout tank was on inside out. She was pawing through her bag. “I think I lost my phone again.”
“It’s in your hand,” the first one pointed out.
“I’m so happy right now,” Luna sighed.
“Shh!” Daisy hissed. “I want to find out what happens to Salvio in book five.”
The night after we met six years ago, our hungover foursome had stumbled into Mordecai’s seeking sustenance and the hair of the dog. What we’d discovered was a kinship and four romance novelists in the next booth.
At first, we thought we were overhearing a murder plot.
“So then I thought, ‘Okay, maybe I can just stab him to death.’ You know? Like really violent because he deserves it, right?”
“Totally. He’s a dirtbag, and everyone is going to agree with that.”
“But then I was like, ‘How can there be sex immediately after this super violent stabbing.’”
“Good point. That would be a little sociopathic.”
“But if I kill him in a funny, light-hearted way—like say he’s run over by a bratwurst truck—then…”
“Blow jobs for everyone!”
Luna and I had wondered if we should call the police.
Daisy was more interested in who they were murdering because he sounded like a guy she dated once, and according to her, he totally deserved to be murdered.
Meanwhile, Cam had snuck a photo of the booth’s occupants and ran an image search.
And that’s how we discovered they were contemporary romance novelists in the midst of plotting out a project.
Ever since, we’d been occupying the booth next to them, reading their books, and eavesdropping on their conversations.
We’d never shared more than polite nods over menus or in the restroom. I don’t think any of us wanted to ruin the mystique. But there was something about eight women, living their best lives, downing pitchers of Bloody Marys, and sharing stories that reassured me that the world could be a very good place.
“Dammit. They’re talking about grocery delivery,” Daisy sighed. “I need to find out if Salvio is going to freak out when he finds out his twin brother accidentally married his crush in Vegas.”
“I wish I could write love stories,” Luna sighed.
“It sounds like Emily’s living one,” Cam pointed out.
“We’re not in love. We’re in lust. It’s very healthy and full of boundaries and explicit expectations.”
“Mmm, explicit,” Daisy said, wiggling on the bench seat.
“What’s going to happen with the board?” Cam asked. “They’re not