Page 86 of Revenge Puck

It is, in fact, probably barren.

“You think WAGs don’t grocery shop?”

“They do not,” she says with authority. “They have assistants. They have fruit pre-sliced for them.”

We laugh again and drink from our glasses, giddy giggles slipping from our lips at the absurdity of the conversation.

“You know what this is?” she says, pointing at me with the neck of the wine bottle. “This is proof. You need a man who texts you about dinner. And I need a man who texts me about dinner reservations.”

She’s tipsy—but so am I.

“I did not forget to eat. I thought you were going to feed me because you’re a normal person with food in their fridge.”

She opens her mouth to respond?—

And my phone starts ringing.

Not vibrating.

Ringing.

We both freeze.

Slowly, like we’re in a horror movie, our heads turn toward the coffee table.

My phone screen lights up.

Blaire squints at it, eyes widening to cartoon proportions.

“Oh my god,” she whispers.

I don’t move. “Is it him?”

“Yes!”

“How do you know?” I ask, panicked, flapping my arms helplessly.

He and I spoke already this afternoon but that was then and this is now, and the last thing I was expecting was for him to follow up.

“Because it says AARON BISHOP on the screen,” she hisses, smacking my arm. “Why is he calling you?”

“I don’t know!”

“Is this a booty call?”

“I don’t know, Blaire!”

She plucks my phone off the coffee table and chucks it at me. “Answer it!”

“I can’t answer it like this!”

“Like what?”

“Like—wine-drunk!”

“Dear god, you are not drunk, you’ve had half a glass.”

“That’s enough!”