A Toast to the Good Times - By Liz Reinhardt Page 0,22

there’s any need to actually see her face to know exactly how humiliated she is.

It’s incredible how the powerful, smart, sexy New York City version of Toni who jumped me on the train has just crumbled, and, even though I don’t remember that night at the party at all, I feel like it’s being replayed, fresh and raw for my horror. Her embarrassment kills me, and I feel a tsunami of shame that’s dragging me under fast and hard.

“I had no idea, Toni. I didn’t realize.”

Before she replies in a way that will make me want to find the nearest bridge fast, the waitress comes over and sets our plates down.

The fries I was starving for a minute ago aren’t remotely appetizing. I push the plate towards Toni and expect her to push it back, but she doesn’t.

She hooks a finger along the hot lip and yanks it closer, grabs at the crispy, still-sizzling edges of a few fries, and pulls them out in all their gravy-soaked, mozzarella-coated glory. She pops them in her mouth and does that distractingly sexy eat-moan-and-close-her-eyes combo.

If she’s eating and enjoying her food that much, she can’t be all that upset.

Right?

As soon as she’s a few bites in, she seems to relax a little. She glances up from under thick, dark lashes and says, “Look. I know...I know that what I’m telling you about that night sounds all ‘woe is me.’ And it was. Back then. Especially when you were, um, standing there with Danielle Levy wrapped around you like a pretzel. That wasn’t easy.”

Danielle Levy.

Danielle. Oh. I remember Danielle.

I’d be pretty surprised if any guy from my graduating class didn’t remember Danielle Levy and her super tight jeans and her almost nonexistent skirts. She was all curves before we even understood how good curves could be, and she had these distractingly sexy legs that she used to cross and uncross over and over during civics.

I still don’t know dick about the electoral college, but I remember every inch of Danielle Levy’s legs.

I also remember, suddenly, that Danielle was at Jagger’s and that she backed me into a room and started kissing me.

And then I remember her whispering all kinds of crazy hot things that made swallowing incredibly difficult.

And I remember her kissing down my chest, pieces of loose hair caught in the buttons on my shirt until her breath was hot over my dick, and my mind was in a thousand places.

I pushed her away, because I wasn’t always particularly good to Toni, but I was never a cheater.

Danielle pawed at me for a while, but I eventually got untangled, stumbled away, and passed out in one of Jagger’s back rooms, on the floor, cradling the cool glass of my empty liquor bottle.

I didn’t think about Toni that night, other than that one second I decided not to cheat.

Honestly, I didn’t give her a lot of thought during my sober moments, let alone when I was drunk. Hell, I didn’t give her a ton of thought when I was on a date with her. Toni was, for me, always there but never really all that noticeable.

And I guess I didn’t notice that night when she was trying to take it to the next level, and I was ignoring her and getting sexed up by Danielle.

“You broke up with me after that night.” I rub a hand over my face.

The break-up wasn’t exactly a huge shock. I was a pretty shitty boyfriend, after all. But it did seem like it came out of nowhere. I figured she finally just wised up and decided to move on.

She chews on her fries and shrugs. “It was a real turning point for me. I stopped chasing guys who had no interest in me.”

“I was an idiot for not being more interested in you,” I lament.

“Yeah. You definitely were.” She pushes the plate my way, and I scoop up some fries reluctantly, regret and self-disgust kind of destroying my appetite. “But I didn’t come here and tell you all this to make you feel like shit.” When I raise an eyebrow at her, she laughs. “Honestly. I swear.”

“So, what was the point of all this, then?”

I dip my fries in gravy and take a salty bite, half hoping she’ll tell me that the point is that the only thing that could make her feel better would be her and me in the backseat of her car or, better yet, her apartment.

“Well, I was just going to send you a