Lexi Cocker - Faleena Hopkins Page 0,3
made her need a drink.”
“She will one day.”
I shout, “Zoe, have you ever…”
“Shh!!!” Sam waves, “Don’t! You know she hasn’t.”
I chew on my lip and we both watch the one wall until Zoe rounds it, blinking at us because we’re staring right at her. “Have I ever…what?”
“Nothing.”
She pours the chilled wine for herself and my sister, “To leaving the wrong guy behind!”
We lift our glasses right as Sally Ashes gracefully leaps up, expertly maneuvering the obstacle course called our coffee table.
Drinking to leaving behind wrong dudes, there’s a smile in our eyes, and one in my heart. I lick my lips, “So this is what happened,” and launch into the story of my wild night.
When they hear about the telltale hair-tie, they gasp. But it’s the jump into the bushes all the way to his stuntman-roll over my Subaru’s hood that really gets them oohing and aahhing! Complete that with my smooth exit line and skidding tires and they’re both enraptured with the stories perfection.
We hold our glass up high, clink them, and take another sip.
“Amazing!” Zoe grins.
“So happy for you, Lex,” smiles Sam.
“Thank you guys. I am over him. I can’t believe it took me this long but it feels so great! I don’t know what I ever saw in Brad. He’s seventeen years older than I am, totally afraid of commitment, doesn’t want kids. So what if his mop is adorable and he really knows how to keep me on my toes? So what?!”
“You can do so much better, Lexi,” Zoe smiles.
Sam agrees, “Of course you can. You’re amazing. And I am behind you whatever you decide.”
“Thank you, guys.” We hold up our glasses. “To never seeing Brad again!”
“Lexi!” comes a shout through the front door, followed by a frantic knock. “Lexi!”
“Brad?!”
“Lexi!!!”
I jump up, dash-limp over as fast as I can, fingers fumbling to unlock it, “Brad!?”
“Lexi!!”
“Brad!!”
“The deadbolt,” Samantha says, “You locked the deadbolt.”
Twisting my whole body with it, I swing open the door. “You drove all the way over?”
He pulls me into his arms. “I’m so sorry!”
I melt, “I’m sorry, too!”
“I should never have called you Alexis!”
“It’s okay, I forgive you!”
My sister mutters, “Zoe, hand me that bottle,” but I don’t even hear her as I’m showered with kisses and dragged back into the wicked dance.
Willingly.
Chapter Three
LEXI
Three Months Later.
On a deliciously loud Saturday night at The Local on Ponce, we’re splitting a pitcher of craft-brewed Orpheus IPA, awesomely titled “Transmigration of Souls.”
Zoe, Sam, and I, are wearing ultra-tight jeans, super stylish boots, and blouses that match our varying personalities.
Hair styled like we mean it.
The Local has a large projection screen for movie nights just inside the door, which music videos are playing on silent tonight.
The old wooden bar carved into and stained by decades of well-spent time spans half of the building’s west wall, bathrooms beside it two unisex doors, then a back exit with loads of uneven parking.
Every table is occupied tonight from the wooden booths to the two, four, six, and eight-tops.
Out front, the patio is ridiculously crowded, however the conversations are less loud so noise complaints don’t come in. There are houses behind this old haunt.
We Atlantan’s may be rowdy, but we’re respectful.
We’re from The South where manners are a must, if your momma and daddy ‘taught you right.’
Unless you’re drunk.
Then…well…
You might get on the wrong side of a fist.
On the east wall I am crushing this game of darts, and my second bullseye inspires Samantha to throw her toned dancer-arms high in presumed defeat. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!”
My ass sways as I stroll to the board, hitting each syllable of, “Ha ha HA!” as I point at my winner, “Look at that!”
Sammy rolls her eyes, “Why am I so bad tonight?!”
“You’re buying the next pitcher if ya lose! It’s between you or Zoe.” I whistle and stroll back, “Whoever shall it be?”
We realize our cousin isn’t with us, and discover her being chatted up by a hipster guy with a medium-length, black beard and dirty-looking flannel shirt half-tucked into torn jeans. Cute boots though.
My sister’s amused gaze locks onto mine and holds. We raise our right hands, fingers counting down until our thumbs complete five.
Zoe starts, blinks down, reaches into her back pocket, and pulls out her phone, screen lit up, and mutters, “Oh, excuse me,” texting with speedy precision.
Side-by-side Samantha and I stand, trying not to laugh.
Hipster-iffic is wholly unaware of us. His useless hopes are set on Zoe being single and that not being some huge boyfriend texting and occupying