Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(8)

"Oh!" Phoebe claps. "Or that time you got pulled over by that cop while we were driving home from that gallery opening and you tried to flirt your way out of a ticket, not realizing you had that giant gob of spinach stuck between your front teeth the whole time—”

"Well, that wasn't really what I meant when I said—”

"And what about that time you forgot to reschedule your Brazilian wax before that OBGYN appointment with the cute doctor and—”

"PHOEBE!" I yell, cutting her off and resolutely ignoring the twitching lips of Chrissy, Shelby, and Gemma. "Do you want to make your own toast? Or would you rather continue listing every embarrassing moment of mine you've ever witnessed?"

"Nope." My best friend grins. "You can finish, now."

I sigh deeply and hoist my shot glass higher in the air. "Like I was saying... You, Phoebe Evangeline West, have been there through it all. You know all my secrets. You're my best friend. You're my partner in crime. You're practically my sister—” My voice breaks on the word, but I ignore the pang of pain that shoots through my heart and push on. "And, while I hate to lose you to anyone, I know there's no man on earth who will love you better or keep you safer than Nathanial Knox. Knowing that you're marrying a man like him... it's the only consolation to losing my best friend." My voice cracks. "I wish you both a life full of laughter, love, and more joy than you can measure. And I hope you know, no matter what, I'll always be here if you need me, whether it’s to drive your getaway car, shape your eyebrows, help hide a dead body, or straighten that hard-to-reach section of hair at the back of your head.”

Phoebe laughs through her sniffles.

My throat feels uncomfortably tight; I clear it roughly and carry on. “Like we swore when we were eight years old, when we pricked our fingers with a pin from my mom's sewing kit and squished them together on the beach behind your house... Team Phee-Lilah for life!”

Misty-eyed, Phoebe reaches across the table and grabs my hand. She doesn't say anything, but she squeezes so hard my bones grind together.

"Don't cry, you great sap." I scoff, looking around at our other friends, who are similarly weepy. "You'll set them all off."

"I'm not crying!" Phoebe lies, wiping a rogue tear. "There's an eyelash... on my cornea..."

I glance at Gemma and find her bottom lip is quivering dangerously as her eyes move back and forth between Phoebe and me.

"My contacts are dry,” she grumbles in a thick voice, brushing at her cheeks.

"You don't wear contacts," I point out.

Another glance around the table reveals Chrissy dabbing her face with a cocktail napkin and Shelby staring up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly.

Christ.

"You're all saps," I mutter, throwing back my shot, then downing Phoebe's for good measure.

In retrospect, I really should've stopped after one. I should’ve listened to Gemma, and quit while I was ahead. I should've remembered that I had to be at work in a handful of hours — my first day at a new job, no less — and that drinking any more would lead to nothing good.

I really should've.

But I didn't.



After my toast, let’s just say… things started to get a little blurry.

I have vague memories of the dance floor — me and the girls, flashing pink and red lights, a cover band belting out songs that haven’t been on the radio for at least a decade until the bar closed and the bouncers kicked us to the curb.

I possess an indistinct recollection of our 3AM limo ride — standing in the sunroof with Phoebe at my side, our arms thrown up to the night sky, screaming at the top of our lungs as Evan steered the hummer toward Phoebe’s brownstone in Back Bay. Dropping off Chrissy, Gemma, and Shelby along the way. Stumbling through Phoebe’s front door, a tangle of flailing limbs and muffled laugher. Her tiny white Pomeranian, Boo, running circles around our high-heeled feet. Phoebe pulling me into the kitchen, toward the distinct sound of male voices…

And then… nothing.

Nada.

Zip.

Zero.

Zilch.

There is one big, embarrassing blank space where my memories should be.

In case you’ve been keeping score…

Tequila: 1

Lila: 0

From the fuzzy puzzle pieces I’ve spent the day attempting to piece together in my mind, at some point I must’ve passed out on Phoebe’s couch, because the next thing I can recall is her dark living room spinning around me like a hallway full of fun house mirrors as my body was lifted effortlessly into a set of arms that felt like they were made of iron.

Other than that, all I have are imprints, echoes of memories just out of my reach. It’s like catching a glimpse of someone from the corner of your eye who disappears as soon as you turn your head to look; like a camera that refuses to focus, leaving the whole world a blur of indistinct shapes.

The faint scent of aftershave.

The jangling of car keys.

The steady thumping of a heartbeat just beneath my ear, where it rested against the fabric of a black t-shirt.

The deep, familiar voice cutting through the haze of tequila.

I’ll take her home. Put her to bed. Make sure she’s safe.

I tell myself that, if I’d been only slightly more sober, I would’ve put up a fight. Would’ve insisted on hopping in a cab, or crashing at Phoebe’s place. After all, Delilah James Sinclair doesn’t depend on anybody. She doesn’t need a knight in shining armor — hell, she doesn’t even believe they exist anyplace outside of fairy tales.