Just Let Go...

“Smitty’s serves more than beer. I’ll order me a Shirley Temple and give you the cherry in case you need an extra one.”

Gillian whacked her on the arm, but knew she’d been out-snookered…but only because she chose to be out-snookered. It was true. Gillian Wanamaker cowered for no man. “He looked good.”

“So tell me about it. Still hot?” Mindy asked, resting on the counter with a leer.

“Hotter,” replied Gillian, because she did have a reputation and responsibility and she took her role-model duties seriously. Well, that, and he did look good.

“How’s the hair? He had great hair.”

“It’s still a little wild. Longer than what an Eagle Scout wears, but it’s very…touchable.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He told me I shouldn’t have cut my hair.”

Mindy nodded. “It was the pigtails in the cheerleader outfit. It was more porn than wholesome.”

“Says who?”

“Says you.”

They both smiled and Gillian wasn’t even upset when Mindy stuck her finger in the pie, drilling through meringue to the rich chocolate below. Most everybody else went for the surface topping, but not Mindy. She knew that the best was what was inside. So did Gillian. It was the reason they were friends.

“I miss those days,” Gillian admitted with a sigh.

“Late nights, hand jobs and drinking behind the Piggly Wiggly?”

“I wish. Then I wouldn’t feel so old.” Mindy and Gillian had always held back, always played by the rules, until their first year in community college when Mindy had met her future husband, Brad. Immediately thereafter, Mindy had moved to the dark side and left Gillian alone.

“Wait until you have to buy yourself some stretch-mark cream,” teased Mindy. “Then talk to me about getting old.” Gillian watched as Mindy pulled another pie from the refrigerator, closing it with the swell of her stomach.

“You’re not getting old. You’re carrying a bowling ball on top of your privates. It’s not natural.”

“How long are you going to stall in the kitchen? The town is waiting. It’s Austen vs. Gillian: The R-Rated Years.”

“I don’t want to see him.”

“You wouldn’t be making seven chocolate cream pies if you didn’t want to see him.”

“He’s pond scum.”

“He’s a first-class son of a bitch. He’s a Hart. You want him. Trust me, it’s a female thing.”

“I don’t want to be stupid.”

“It’s only stupid if your heart gets smashed up against the rocks. Crush him under your heel, and then—” Mindy lowered her voice “—you have sex with him.”

“Why?” asked Gillian, morbidly curious.

“What happens if you don’t?”

“I go home.”

“What happens if you do?”

And then Gillian saw the track of Mindy’s more salacious thoughts. If Gillian slept with Austen, then she’d never have the fantasy playing in her head again. Never have the feeling of girl, interrupted, not anymore. Never feel like she’d had something good ripped away. This would just be a man, a woman and a bar. It was cheap and tawdry, nothing magical or romantic at all. It would be perfect. Gillian took stock of Mindy, who was silently waiting for her to see the brilliance of the idea. And she did. In fact, it was so brilliant that Gillian should have thought of it herself. She was the brains in the friendship, not Mindy. Maybe pregnancy had done something to Mindy’s brain, made her smarter, wiser.

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