The Basics: Florence, home to the Statue of David, is Tuscany’s most famous city.
Sure, David’s naked torso is the highlight, but Florence also has gorgeous medieval churches! And cheap leather purses! And heavenly gelato! And OMFG the pizza!
The room at the hotel we stay at in Florence is tiny, with molding on the walls and high ceilings. It looks like it’s about a thousand years old. Our room is on the first floor, which is actually the second floor since, like everywhere else in Europe, the ground floor is floor zero.
There is no air conditioner. Our iPhones tell us it’s ninety-seven degrees Fahrenheit outside. We are hot. We are smelly. We share a wall with a family of Americans. They are loud. They are cranky. It is their first stop abroad and their children haven’t adjusted to the time difference yet. Newbies.
The good news is there’s free Wi-Fi. The bad news is there are no messages from Jackson. Not that I was expecting any. There’s a heaviness in my chest, but I try to shake it off.
When I see a text from my sister I feel better.
Addison: We went to get ice cream yesterday.
Me: Walked?
Addison: Drove.
Me: You drove?
Addison: Nope. SHE DID. Well, halfway.
Me: ????????!
What the hell?
Addison: It’s been kind of crazy here.
Three dots. I wait.
Addison: Mom was really upset after my birthday.
Me: No kidding.
Addison: Not just at me. She was upset with HERSELF. For not being able to pick up her drunk daughter.
Me: Really?
Addison: Yes! She started to cry and said something had to change. So we made an appointment with an online therapist.
Me: Seriously?
My mother agreed to talk to a therapist? My knees feel jiggly and I sit down on the bed for support.
Addison: Yes! She lives in New Jersey. But you can talk to her on Skype. Sloane told me about the one she used to talk to, so we Googled online therapists and made an appointment with Dr. Walters. We didn’t even have to leave the house!
Me: I can’t believe she spoke to an actual therapist.
Addison: I know! Dr. Walters said that if she really wants to get better she should try and do a little bit of what terrifies her every day, with increasing difficulty. So the first day she got into the car, turned on the ignition, and drove to the end of the driveway. That’s it. Today she drove halfway to Baskin-Robbins! Tomorrow she’s going to try to drive the whole way. And she said she might consider trying another type of anxiety pill. Maybe . . . She’s thinking about it at least!
Me: Wow. Just. Wow.
Addison: I know. Yay! I gotta go. Love you!
I stare at my phone in disbelief. I can’t believe it. My mother is getting better. My sister is helping my mother get better. I feel relief. I feel hopeful. I feel ecstatic.
I also feel queasy. How come I couldn’t help her get better?
An hour later, I’m still in shock. When I tell the girls what happened they cheer.
“That’s fantastic!” Kat squeals. “Now come on! We’ve got things to do. This is going to be amazing. I want to get a leather jacket and a purse. The leather here is cheap. And the food is spectacular. All we’re going to eat is pizza and gelato. You’re going to die when you have the pizza. Die.”
I try to focus on the good news and push away the feelings of weirdness.
We get takeaway pizza at a place called Mangia that Travel Europe swears by.
“Omigod,” Leela says. “My mouth just had an orgasm.”
“Amazing,” Kat says. “Where does it say is the best place to get gelato?”
At the place where we end up, right down the street, there are rows and rows of flavors with Italian and English labels—flavors I would never think of turning into ice cream, like cinnamon, which is sandy-colored; melon, which is pale orange; ricotta and fig, which is white and brown. They also have, um, Viagra, which is bright blue. I think I’ll skip that one. We each try a few tasters and I end up with a sugar cone of cocco, which is coconut, and melon. The gelato is creamy and thick and looks and tastes more like frozen icing than it does ice cream, but mmm. I will have to try some other flavors tomorrow.
“I feel like I’m in Eat, Pray, Love,” Leela says, licking her cone of Nutella and coconut. “Except we started with love, then went to eat, and we totally forgot about the praying.”
“We have been pretty pathetic on the church and museum front,” I admit.
“But we’re in Florence,” Leela says. “We’ll make up for it here. That’s all we’ll do. Learn, pray, eat. I’m done with loving.”
Me too.
Tip: Watch out for hidden costs at restaurants.
You know that lovely free basket of bread your waiter always brings to your table? It’s NOT free. Check the bill. They charged you three euros for it. Tricky bastards.
So the next day we do what one is actually supposed to do when one travels through Europe.
We see stuff.
Well, first we stop at a leather market so Kat can buy an orange leather jacket and a yellow leather purse, and Leela and I can buy black leather gloves for our dads.
Then we see stuff. First, we visit the halls of the Uffizi Gallery, where we see many paintings titled Madonna-something.
“Masterpieces always make me feel so attractive,” Kat says. “Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.”
“It’s true. We’re totally as hot as these women,” Leela says. “But nobody has ever tried to paint me.”
Next we walk over to the Duomo.
“Isn’t there another Duomo in Milan?” I ask.
“Duomo just means Italian cathedral,” Kat says. “So there are a few. I think this is one of the most famous ones, though. I was in Milan two years ago.”
“Of course you were,” Leela says. “Is there anywhere you haven’t been?”
“I haven’t been to India,” she says. “I would love to go to India.”
“Wow, I’ve been somewhere you haven’t?” Leela says. “I’m in shock!”
“Where did you go?” Kat asks.
“Mumbai,” Leela says. “My dad’s parents live there. I went for a summer once.”
“That was the longest summer of my life,” I say.
“I missed you too,” she says. “Remember all the postcards I sent?”
“I still have them,” I tell her.
“Wow,” Leela says, as we stand outside the cathedral. It’s a massive Gothic structure built out of green, white, black, and pink stones. It looks like a mosaic. It’s amazing.
We try to buy tickets at the cathedral but are sent down the street to the museum. They are fifteen euros each, but include entrance to the cathedral, the dome, the museum, the baptistery, and the bell tower.
We start in the cathedral. After thirty minutes in line, we’re finally allowed in. More gorgeousness. The ceilings are sky-high and the cathedral is filled with paintings, portraits, frescoes, statues, and stained-glass windows.
“If I ever get married,” Leela says, “I want it to be here.”
“You think they do weddings?” I ask.
“Of course,” Kat says. “If you’re Catholic.”
“I’m not Catholic,” Leela says. “Are you?”
“Yup,” Kat says. “I guess it will be my wedding here, suckers. You guys can be guests, though.”
Next up we wait in line for the dome.
Once we get inside, I see the sign in Italian and English: Visitors are required to climb 463 steps.
463 steps?
“Syd?” Leela asks, looking at me. “What do you want to do?”
If my mom can go to Baskin-Robbins, then I can do this. I take a long sip of water. “Let’s do it.”
The stairs are absurdly narrow, it’s hot, and my legs start to shake at about stair two hundred. Maybe I’m just in better shape after three weeks of carrying forty pounds of clothes and snow globes on my back, or maybe it’s because I know I can do it, or maybe it’s because the frescoes along the way are gorgeous, but I make it to the top. We all do.
We stand outside, and enjoy the wind on our sweaty faces. The view is three-hundred-and-sixty degrees around Florence. We look out over all the red roofs and beige and yellow houses and cobblestoned streets and the water and surrounding mountains.
I feel strong. I feel brave. I feel lucky.
“Nice,” Leela says, linking her arm through mine.
Kat snaps a photo of us and says, “Spectacular.”
The next day we visit the Accademia Gallery, where we check out the ultimate piece of art: the statue of David.
He’s made of white stone, surrounded by glass, and looming at the end of a long hallway.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“He’s kind of small, you know?” Leela says.
“He’s seventeen feet!” I exclaim.
“That’s not what I meant. His, you know . . . is small. If you were making a statue of a prominent biblical figure, wouldn’t you make him better endowed?”
“His balls are pretty big,” Kat says, studying his nether regions. “He’s just not erect.”
“Michelango should have sculpted Goliath,” I say. “I bet he would have been well-endowed.”
“We have dirty, dirty minds,” Leela says.
“Take a picture of me with it so I can send to Gavin,” Kat says. “Make him jealous. Or not jealous since Gavin’s is so much bigger. Proportionally, of course.”
“Much more info than I wanted,” Leela says.
“Oh, come on,” Kat says. “You just broke up with your boyfriend. You’re legally obligated to tell us what a small penis he has.”
“It’s true,” Leela says. “Matt does have a small penis. Also it’s tilted to the left. Okay, let’s take a picture of ourselves in front of David and make them all jealous.”
We stand together and Kat takes the photo.
“Say small penis,” Kat says.
“Small penis,” we repeat.
Snap.
“Let’s take a few more,” Leela says.
“You know,” I say, “Travel Europe says there are actually three statues of David in Florence.”
“Does that mean we can each have a David of our very own?” Kat asks.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
“Oh, that’s good,” Leela says. “We’re all laughing. We look like we’re having a great time.”
“Aren’t we?” Kat asks. She shrugs. “I’m having a great time.”
Leela scrolls through her phone. “I want to have a better time than our idiot ex-boyfriends are.”
“Our idiot ex-boyfriends?” I repeat.
“Yeah. Losers.”
She seems to like that we’re in this together now. It’s us against them.
“Why don’t you stop looking at Matt’s photos,” I say. “Then you won’t know if they’re having fun.”
“But why has he suddenly become an active poster? And why are they on a boat?”
“A boat?” I repeat, trying to keep my voice light.
“Yeah. I think they’re still in France,” Leela says. She says the word with disgust.
“Never mind,” I say. “I don’t want to know.”
She keeps scrolling.
“Oh, let me see,” I say, even though I know it’s a bad idea. She hands me the phone and then I see it. The two of them with a group of women in black bikinis.
“Crap,” I say.
“Who are those girls?” Kat asks, peering over my shoulder.
“They look like models,” Leela says.
They really do. There are three of them and they have long dark hair, large boobs, and toned stomachs. I hate them.
“How the hell did our boys meet the Kardashians?” Leela asks.
“Omigod, they do look like the Kardashians,” I say.
“No, they don’t,” Kat says. “You girls are a million times more attractive than them. Plus, you are smarter, funnier, and kinder.”
“And you know that for a fact?” I ask.
“I do,” she says.
“One of these girls is actually a model,” Leela says. “Look.” Since Matt tagged her, we flip to her account and see shot after shot of her in various come-hither poses.
Unfortunately, she’s also the one who has her hand draped across Jackson.
“I guess he’s moved on,” I squeak out.
“Bastard,” Kat growls.
“Such a player,” Leela says. “This should make you feel better that it’s over. I really hope you used condoms.”
“Leela,” Kat warns.
“What? Just saying.”
My whole body is tense. He already met somebody else? Two days later? Two days? I should not have looked at the photo. I don’t want to think of him. It’s over. It was a fling. Time to move on.
“What do you want to do?” Kat asks. “Make him jealous? Should I take inappropriate pictures of you with the David statue?”
“No,” I say, forcing out a laugh.
“The only way to get over him is to hook up with someone else. You know it’s the truth,” Kat says. “You have to get the feel of him off your body.”
“You want me to just hook up with some stranger?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “I was thinking, since we’re in Italy, Tuscany actually, maybe now you’ll want to visit Alain.”
Leela lowers her sunglasses. “Do you think he really wants us to come?”
“He certainly does,” Kat says. “Should we go?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know.” He was cute. And sweet. And we shared a pretty great kiss. . . .
“Yes,” Leela says. “I think we should go.”
“I thought we were having a girls’ trip?” I turn to Leela. “I thought we’d given up on love?”
“Florence is really hot,” Leela says. “And I’m almost out of money. Does Alain have a pool?”
“Yup,” Kay says. “And a chef.”
“A chef?” we both shriek.
“Should I double check with him if we can come?” Kat asks. “He might have invited other people.”
Leela fans herself with her hand. “Please do. I’m melting.”
“I’m not going to have to sleep with him, am I?” I say. “I’m not sure I want to sleep with him.”
“You don’t have to sleep with him,” Kat says. “Very funny. He’s texting back. He’s there. He wants us to come. He has lots of extra rooms. What do you think?”
“One of you is going to have to sleep with him if I don’t want to,” I joke.
Leela nods. “Deal.”
I laugh. “Now let’s go find me a snow globe of David’s tiny penis and we can go.”
Tip: Villa is the Italian word for country house.
A really, really nice country house.
Alain is waiting outside the train station in Grosseto. He’s standing beside a black Mercedes. Casual—like it’s no big deal. Actually, maybe it isn’t in Europe. A lot of the cars are German. Even some of the taxis are BMWs.
My heart flutters and sinks at the sight of him. He’s sweet and he’s cute and he likes me and he’s here. But he’s not Jackson.
“Sit in the front,” Kat whispers to me.
“Stop whoring me out,” I whisper back.
“I am so happy you came,” he says, giving all three of us kisses on both cheeks.
“We’re happy to see you,” Kat says.
“You will love the villa.”
“I love that you have a villa,” Leela says.
“We are not far from the sea. Later this week we will take a boat to Elba and Isola del Giglio.”
“It all sounds great,” I say, climbing into the front. “Thank you for inviting us.”
We all chatter as we drive through rolling hills and pass olive trees and occasional vineyards.
“This is amazing,” Leela says, her face pressed against the window.
“It is,” he says.
About twenty minutes later, we pull up in front of his house.
It’s huge. It’s only two floors but it’s spread out on a cliff and blends into the horizon.
A woman in a white uniform joins us outside.
“Luciana will take your bags,” he says. “Lunch is waiting for us.”
As we walk through the house, we all make faces at one another. It’s gorgeous. The ceilings are high, the entranceways are arched, the floors are marble. Europeans really love their marble.
“What a stunning place,” Kat says.
“Yeah,” I repeat.
“Omigod,” Leela says.
“Yes,” Alain says. “It is nice. Now come eat. Lunch is on the terrasse.”
We walk through the kitchen to the most beautiful spot in the entire world, hands down. The terrace overlooks the valley below and the mountains in the distance. To the right is a perfectly still, pale blue infinity pool.
“This is heaven,” Leela says. “Did our train crash? And now we’re all here?”
“You had trouble on the train?” Alain asks.
“No,” I say. “She was joking.”
On the glass table are plates and plates of food. Salad with juicy-looking tomatoes. Platters of cheese. Crusty bread. Grapes. A plate of some sort of sliced meat that I won’t eat because it’s probably ham. Three bottles of prosecco, which, he explains, is Italian champagne.
“Mangiamo,” he says.
“That means let’s eat,” Kat says.
After lunch, we unpack.
“Now you relax,” Alain tells us. “I must work, but you enjoy the pool. I will join you for dinner at twenty hours.”
“Sounds good to me,” I say. Twenty hours. Eight p.m. it is.
Relax it is.
All three of us spread out on the poolside chairs. They’re the fancy long kind with thick white pillows.
It’s quiet. No phones. No music. Nothing but silence.
“Why does he have so much money?” Leela asks. “And do you know the Wi-Fi password here? My 3G is having issues.”
“Stop checking on Matt,” I say. “Enough. You’ve got to disconnect.”
“Disconnect to connect?” Kat says. “I hate that saying.”
“Is that really a saying?”
“It is.”
“She has to do it, though,” I say.
“Fine, I won’t check,” Leela says, putting her phone down on the glass side table. “So why’s Alain so rich?”
“Family money,” Kat says. “Old family money.”
“So if we hadn’t shown up he would have been here by himself? With just his staff?” I ask. “Is that weird?”
“I’m sure he has friends here,” Kat says. “He’s here a lot. And he definitely still likes you. In case you’re wondering.”
“He’s still attractive,” I say. “And I’m definitely in love with his house.”
“You may as well see what happens,” Kat says. “Why not, right?”
Jackson is why not. I push the thought away. Jackson is on a yacht with Kardashian models. He’s not worrying about me, so I shouldn’t be worried about him. End of story. Now where’s that prosecco?
Luciana makes pasta from scratch and Alain invites some friends over and we all drink and eat and are merry.
Alain flirts with all of us, but he sits next to me.
I’m not quite ready for something to happen again, so after dinner I say good night with the other girls and go back to my room. He doesn’t make a move.
I’m not sure if I want him to make a move.
We all go to sleep in our beautiful down beds, the heavy blinds pulled and the air-conditioning blasting.
We wake up the next day and return to the pool.
“I could live like this,” Leela says. “Should we just stay here until it’s time to go home? It’s only nine days.”
“I guess since I’m with Alain, it counts as work,” Kat says. “Do you know I’m getting school credit for this?”
“Of course you are,” Leela says with a laugh. “Can I be you when I grow up?”
All is great until Alain shows up at the pool.
He’s wearing a blue banana hammock.
All of our eyes widen to the size of pasta bowls.
“He totally pulls it off,” Kat whispers.
“I’m not sure anyone can pull that off,” Leela whispers back, giggling.
I can’t decide if it grosses me out or turns me on. He does look good in it. He doesn’t have the statue of David’s problem, that’s for sure.
That night, Alain drives us into the town, and we end up at a restaurant called Oliva, which is on a cliff overlooking the town of Castiglione della Pescaia. We sit at an outdoor table, which overlooks the pedestrian-only streets and the harbor behind it. Stars blanket the black sky.
When the waiter comes, Alain proceeds to speak in Italian.
“Why are Europeans so international?” I ask. “I can barely speak English and Alain is fluent in at least four languages.”
“Do you ladies trust me?” he asks, looking around the table at each of us.
“Yes,” Kat says quickly. “Absolutely.”
“I will order for everyone, then?” he asks.
We nod.
“But no snails,” Leela says. “And nothing snaillike. Promise?”
“I promise,” he says, but he makes a worm motion with his fingers. “I am kidding.”
I relax into my chair. It’s nice to have someone else make the plans. It’s nice to be taken care of, for a change. I take another deep breath and then an even deeper sip of the bright orange fizzy Campari spritz cocktails that he already ordered for us.
Plate after plate of food arrives. Appetizers (cuttlefish, prawns, mussels), then pasta dishes (lobster spaghetti, burrata ravioli, pici pasta with tuna), and then finally the piatti principali, the main dishes (branzino, Florentine-style steak, and duck). It’s way too much, but every bite is like a delicious surprise, and we eat it all.
“Who wants gelato?” Kat asks.
“Me!” says Leela. “We’ll be back!”
Giggling, the two of them run down toward the packed pedestrian-only streets, leaving us standing by the railing.
“It is a beaut-ee-ful night, yes?”
“Um, yup.”
“Shall we walk?”
“Sure,” I say.
He puts his arm out and I take it.
We walk.
I can do this. I am with a handsome Austrian-French man in Italy. He’s sweet. He ordered dinner. He has a gorgeous house. The stars look like glitter paint on a black canvas. Now this has fling potential. He is a mystery. I don’t know how many girls he slept with this year. I don’t know his horrible family nicknames or that he snores. I know nothing about him except that he is rich, European, young, handsome, a good kisser, and well endowed. It couldn’t be a more perfect fling. I mean, seriously. This is what summer romances are made of. Jackson who?
“I hired a boat for tomorrow,” he says.
“Wow. That sounds wonderful.” I’ll take Jackson’s French boat and raise him an Italian one.
He nods. “Yes. It will be.”
His arm is around me. The moon is full. He is standing over me. He is about to kiss me again. He is about to kiss me again! What do I do? Do I stop it? He’s not Jackson! I wish he were Jackson. But Jackson’s gone.
He leans down and presses his lips against mine.
His lips are soft. He tastes like tomato sauce and red wine.
He does not taste like Jackson.
But it’s a nice kiss.
I hear Leela’s giggle and look up to see Leela and Kat licking their ice cream cones on a bench.
My cheeks burn.
I wave.
They both wave back. Kat turns away from us.
“We should take them home,” Alain says, staring at them.
“Yeah,” I say.
He takes my arm and walks me back to the car.
I sit in the front. It’s like we’re playing house. I’m the mom, Alain is the dad, and Leela and Kat are the kids in the backseat who giggle and whisper to each other all the way home.
A few days ago they kinda hated each other and now they’re two peas in a pod. Part of me is happy they’re getting along. Part of me feels left out.
I want to be one of the kids in the backseat.
“Glass of wine?” Alain asks me. The four of us are sitting on the terrace. The moon shines, the stars are still bright, and the air smells like lemon and olive oil.
I see Leela and Kat making eyes at each other.
“I’m tired,” Leela says, jumping up.
“Me too,” says Kat. She slowly stretches herself out of her chair like a cat.
“Good night,” Alain says. “Sleep well. Sydney, you will have another drink with me?”
“Sure,” I say. Why not?
And then it’s just the two of us.
I know what’s going to happen. Do I want it to happen? I don’t really care, if I’m being honest.
Alain turns his chair so that it’s directly facing me. His left knee bumps up against mine. “I am coming to New York in the fall. Maybe I can see you?”
“Oh. Um, I don’t live in New York,” I say, running my finger against my wine glass.
“Where do you live?” he asks.
“In Maryland. It’s about a five-hour drive.”
He leans over. Closer and closer. My heart is thumping. It’s a beautiful night. In a beautiful place. With a beautiful man.
He kisses me.
It is a fine kiss. It is a nice kiss. But he’s not Jackson.
I can’t.
I pull back. “I think I’m going to go to bed.”
“Okay,” he says. “We go to bed.”
“No, no, no,” I say, flustered. “Sorry. Um. I want to go to bed. By myself? See, I’m really tired. And I . . . I kind of have feelings for someone else? A guy I met in London?” I’m not sure why my sentences are coming out as questions, except for that this whole conversation is super awkward.
At first he says nothing. Then he leans back and sighs. “I understand. If I’m being honest, I care for someone else too.”
“An ex?” I ask.
He shakes his head. He motions to Kat’s bedroom window. “Your friend.”
“Oh!” I say. I realize I’m not that surprised. “That’s . . . she has a boyfriend.”
“I know. And evidently she is not interested in me because she is pushing me to date you.”
“I think she’s pretty crazy about her boyfriend,” I say. “I’m sorry. Again.”
“Me too,” he says. “But thank you for being honest. I appreciate that. Bonne nuit.”
I go into my bedroom and knock on the door to the bathroom I’m sharing with Leela. “You up?”
“Come in,” she says.
I open the door. Kat and Leela are sitting on the bed chatting.
“Did anything happen?”
“We kissed,” I say.
“That’s it? How come?” Kat asks.
“Because I’m not over Jackson. And it turns out Alain’s into you.”
Kat blushes. “Me?”
“Yes.”
“He told you that?” she squeals.
“He did.”
“He really likes me?”
“Yes,” I say. “You’re not interested in him, right, Kat?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Kat?” I ask again.
“No,” she says. Her face is white. “Or yes. I don’t know. He’s very attractive. And he’s so generous and smart and . . .” She turns around and buries her face in her pillow.
“You like him?” Leela asks.
“I don’t want to like him!” she says. “I’m in love with Gavin. But Gavin is across the world and every time I’m in the same room as Alain I want to jump his bones. What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing’s wrong with you,” I say. “It’s normal to be attracted to more than one person.”
“Is it, though?” she asks. “All I think about is sex when I’m around him. Sex, sex, sex. It is not right to be thinking about having sex all the time with one man when I’m with someone else. That’s wrong.”
“So break up with Gavin,” I say. “And have sex with Alain.” I’m friends with Gavin at school, but my loyalty lies with Kat. I want her to be happy.
“Break up with him by phone?” she asks. “That’s horrendous. And I do love him. And it’ll crush him. And how stupid would it be to break up with my loving, amazing boyfriend back home to hook up with some guy—even a handsome French guy—who I will never see again after the summer? That’s just bad planning. Plus he’s kind of my boss! I’m not the type of girl who sleeps with her boss!” She turns to Leela. “What do you think I should do?”
“Honestly?” Leela replies. “I think we should leave.”
“You want to leave this magical, air-conditioned villa?” I ask, incredulous.
“Yes. Kat can’t be here. She’s too tempted. We must sacrifice the air-conditioning to save our friend!”
I smile. I know Leela’s half-joking, but I can tell that she’s also trying to be nice. Also, it’s the first time Leela has referred to Kat as a friend. I like it. “Okay. We must leave. But not tomorrow. He already rented a boat for us. But the next day for sure.”
“Fine,” Kat grumbles. “We leave Tuesday. But where to?”
“Venice?” I say.
“Venice,” she repeats. “Good. I like Venice. Although my parents left me in the hotel with a babysitter when I was a kid because there was too much walking and I wouldn’t stop complaining. It was still a nice hotel, though. A Westin, I think? Maybe we can stay there?”
“There is no budget for that,” I say. “I’ll start looking for a hostel.”
Kat nods. “Now just to review: I’m not allowed to have sex with Alain, even a little. Right? What about clothes-on making out? I’ve been having some great fantasies about what I can do to him on the glass table on the terrace.”
“And let’s keep it a fantasy,” I say.
Kat puts her hands on mine. “Just tell me one thing.”
“Yes?”
“Is he a good kisser?”
I look her in the eye. “Very slobbery. Plus, he has terrible breath.”
She lets out a groan. “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”