Fourth Comings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [57]
“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, Manda. I mean, he’s got a girlfriend now.”
“The time-traveler bitch? Puh-leeze. I saw her picture on Len’s blog. No competition.”
I’d also seen it on “Mouth of the Wormhole.” Len met Camilla at a Time Traveler party, an MIT nerdfest in which an open invitation is extended to any future-dweller who might be interested in using his or her time machine to go back in history just so he or she could attend their shindig. Yes, the general idea is that the guest of honor would have to manipulate the whole space-time continuum for the pleasure of tapping (a) the keg and (b) some ass. (Which is pretty hardcore, when you think about it. We have problems persuading people to come out to party in Brooklyn.) The only person less likely to show up at a Time Traveler party than a dimension-bending honoree is a brainy female hottie like Camilla. I mean, the odds of that happening are infinitesimal, which is why I’m so happy for both of them, and Len in particular. I do not want Manda to wreck this for him.
“Len seems really happy now and…”
“And what?”
“He was devastated when you left him for Shea,” I said. “It took him a long time to get over you….”
Manda slurped the rest of the pink wine from her cup before calmly asking, “Was he over me when he fucked you?”
I winced. She smiled wickedly. “So it is true,” Manda said. “You fucked Len.”
(I did. But you know this already.)
It doesn’t matter how Manda found out, though the smart money would be on Sara.
“It was a mistake,” I said.
“Oh, puh-leeze,” she said dismissively. “His virginity pledge was such a pain in the ass when we were together. I’m relieved you got to him first. Now he’ll appreciate my many gifts when we get back together.”
I ignored the insult. She waited until I took a sip of zin before proceeding.
“I called him.”
“What?!” Pink spit shot out all over the hardwood floor. “You spoke to him?”
“Left a message.” She grinned triumphantly, and her wide mouth took up too much of her face. She was well aware of the dramatic implications of such a bold gesture. No one reconnects with an ex by phone. It’s just not done. You’re supposed to work your way though safer, more impersonal channels of communication first. There are countless combinations, of course, but one such sequence would be: witty blog comment, IM, e-mail, voice mail, face-to-face meeting over coffee, face-to-face meeting over alcohol, reunion fuck. But bypassing the first three and going straight to voice mail? That’s kamikaze communication.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“Oh, not much…”
Manda then made a big deal out of yawning, casually stretching her arms above her head, and arching her back until her watermelon tits almost exploded out of her bra. My guess is that this gesture was supposed to be sexy. But it reminded me of that has-been comedian (Gallagher?) who has made an entire career out of smashing fruit with sledgehammers.
“The usual—you know,” she finally continued. “Hey, I was just thinking about you, we haven’t talked in a while, I broke up with Shea, and oh yeah, I’m still in love with you….”
“Manda!”
“What?” she asked, coyly fluttering her eyelashes.
“You are not still in love with him!”
“How do you know? Who are you to tell me who I’m in love with? I could easily be in love with Len.”
“But you’re not!”
She pouted. “I could be.” Then her petulant pucker spread into a knowing smile. “And more to the point, he could still be in love with me.”
He could. And if he wasn’t, he would be. It was his fate. Consider this Manda’s version of the Pussy Legacy. With a legendary combination of headstrong self-determination and mythic cleavage, Manda has never failed to snare anyone, of any gender, she has ever wanted. It was impossible for me not to feel sorry for Len’s future