Faith had wholeheartedly believed that every girl on earth should have a boyfriend exactly like Jeremy Lyon, an odd charge filled the air when Levi was around, and it only grew when Jessica joined them. Jeremy was much more attractive (Faith always thought of him as an exotic prince, with his swarthy skin and dark, dark eyes), but Levi had something Jeremy didn’t. Heterosexuality, she would learn.
But back in high school, Levi just made her nervous. He’d look at Jessica with those sleepy green eyes, his straight, dark blond hair always slightly messy, and you just knew those two were doing it—unlike herself and Jeremy, who were much more, uh, virtuous.
Once, Faith had caught Levi and Jessica making out in Hugo’s coatroom, and it had stopped her in her tracks, the lazy hunger in that kiss, slow and deep and unhurried. Levi had looked like a man years before the rest of the boys—thickly muscled arms and big hands that were the speculation of every female at Manningsport High. Then those hands had slid down Jess’s back, pulling her hips close against his own in an unmistakably sexual move, his mouth never leaving Jessica’s as he leaned into her.
Holy hormones.
Faith had whirled around and hightailed back to the table and her boyfriend, her perfect, loving, protective Jeremy. Her face had been hot, her hands shaking. Crikey, she’d hoped they hadn’t seen her. That little display had been so...crass. Yes. Crass.
Back then, she’d thought the reason Jeremy never kissed her like that was because they truly loved each other. It was something more pure and special than simple lust, that...that rutting that Levi and Jessica surely did.
Right.
“I hate that bathroom,” Colleen said, pulling Faith out of the bog of memories. “It’s freezing, first of all, and those automatic toilets are dangerous, like they could suck down an entire child.” She sat back down. “Hey, did you notice I’m wearing a push-up bra, Holland? For you. Connor always says women get more dressed up for each other than for men.”
“It’s true. I’m wearing a Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment for you.”
“Really? Just for me? No wonder you’re my best friend.”
“You’re welcome. But you always wear a push-up bra.”
“You have a point. But I’m wearing glittery eye shadow, see?” Colleen batted her long, black, completely natural and totally unfair lashes for Faith to admire.
Suddenly, the back of Faith’s neck prickled. She felt it first, that reverberation in her stomach, then heard it.
Jeremy’s voice.
Oh, God, he had the best voice, low and warm and always with a laugh behind it, as if he found everyone and everything utterly wonderful.
“The time has come,” Colleen confirmed.
“No! No, no, no. I’m, I’m not ready. I hate this sweater.” Faith swallowed. “Coll, what do I do? What do I do?”
“Um...go say hi?”
“I can’t! I have to lose fifteen pounds! Plus, I’m not ready. I have to...prepare.”
Colleen laughed. “Just bite the bullet! You look great.”
“No. Really. Not yet.” She risked a glance at him—broad shoulders, that beautiful black hair, and he was laughing now, oh, crap! All he had to do was turn forty-five degrees, and he’d see her.
“Bathroom,” she said, and bolted.
She made it. No one else was in here, praise the Lord. Her heart was doing a fair impression of Secretariat at the Belmont, and there was a good possibility she was about to puke.
Faith caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. She definitely wasn’t ready. First of all, the fifteen pounds. And her hair was dopey today. Also, she’d maybe put on some glittery eye shadow and something sexier than a black wrap sweater that looked like something a Mennonite would wear to a funeral. Honestly, what had she been thinking when she bought it? It wasn’t even low-cut.
No. She had to prepare, because if she was going to see He Who Left Her at the Altar, she was going to look amazing and have some remarks planned. Not have two martinis inside her, and look at this! A blob of egg roll on her boob, and Colleen had said nothing! Some friend.
Okay. She’d just call Colleen, ask her to pay the bill and then let her know when Jeremy wasn’t looking, and she’d bolt to freedom.
Futtocks. She’d left her purse (and phone) at the table.
Well. She had to pee, anyway. Terror did that to her. Going into the stall, she unwound her sweater—the Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment (try saying that five times fast) required that she practically strip naked to use the bathroom—and wrestled up her undergarment. The martinis, while relaxing and excellent, didn’t help her in the grace and coordination department, let alone the slutty, high-heeled boots she’d donned for Colleen.
Men never had to deal with this, Faith thought. Men didn’t hide in bathrooms and wrestle microfiber and pantyhose. Totally not fair. Men had it easy. Did men get bikini waxed and wear uncomfortable underwear? No, they did not. Faith would bet her life that a man had invented thongs. Men sucked.
As she yanked the Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment back into position, she reached for her sweater—so complicated! She got one arm in, couldn’t find the other one, groped, missed...and all of a sudden, heard the roar of the child-sucking toilet. There was a tug on her arm, and Faith staggered back, watching in horror as her sweater peeled off and disappeared halfway down the toilet, one black arm dangling out like a dead snake.
Colleen had been right. The toilet was on steroids.
“Well, this...bites,” she announced, her voice echoing. Her sweater was in the toilet and obviously she wasn’t going to wear it. She picked up the dry sleeve and gave a tentative tug. Whoosh—there was the damn sensor again, and just like that, the sweater was gone.
And Faith was alone in the bathroom in a red skirt, slutty boots, a black 36-D push-up bra and beige Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment slip that stopped under her boobage, the only reason she could still fit into this outfit.
She was trapped. Wait, wait...she had a raincoat in Colleen’s car; Coll had driven tonight, and it had looked like rain, but it hadn’t rained, so she’d left it in the car. There. A plan. She’d just call Colleen, ask her to get the raincoat, bring it in, then they could flee like the wind. Also, she should stop drinking martinis.
She turned for her purse. Dang. Right, it was back at the table.
Faith chewed on her lip for a second, then glanced down and adjusted her right breast. Okay. Time to summon the cavalry.
She tiptoed to the door—why tiptoe, who knew?—and peeked out. To see the actual dining room, she was going to have to leave the bathroom, go down the hallway a few steps and take her chances. But she should be able to flag down Colleen, who, after all, might possibly remember that her oldest friend was in distress.
She opened the door. No one was in sight. One step out. Another step. She crossed her arms over her chest, then over her Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment. Which did she want to hide more, the boobage, or the fat-squishing undergarment? The Microfiber Slim-Nation
