Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84322 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84322 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Jacob smiled even more genuinely then, and his deep green eyes found mine, like he understood completely.
“I’ll text you later,” I told him. And with an air kiss and a wish of good luck, the call ended.
Morgan squeaked again when I flipped the lid of my laptop down, flopping on her back and wiggling around in my sheets.
“Can you believe it? It’s my bachelorette party tonight! Gah,” she said on a dreamy sigh, clasping her hands to her chest. “We used to dream about this. Remember?”
“I remember that, back then, we pictured bright pink penis straws and absolutely no men allowed, other than a stripper or two.”
“Well, things change,” she said, eyeing me with a blush. “Especially when you’re so head over heels for the guy you’re marrying.”
I smiled then, too. “I’m happy for you, Morgan.”
“Thanks, bestie.” Her eyes watered a bit, but she sat upright before the emotions could take over, dragging me off the bed with her and popping my ass with a loud slap. “Now, take a shower. It’s time for manis and pedis and blow outs and new clothes!”
I was still laughing and rubbing my ass when she skipped out of my room, telling me to meet her downstairs in twenty.
And then I frowned, wondering who the other voice was outside my door before she flew through it only moments ago.
Wondering if the shadow that disappeared down the hall was the same one that had haunted me for years.
The best thing about Oliver? He loved karaoke just as much as my best friend.
Which was almost as much as me.
Morgan wasn’t like other brides I’d known in the sense that she didn’t want to be surprised with a weekend-long epic getaway for her bachelorette party. No, she told me she wanted me to plan something low-key and casual.
And by saying that she wanted me to plan it, she meant she wanted me to give suggestions and then she would sign off on them and take the reins because she couldn’t bear to not be involved in every part of the process.
So, when I’d mentioned over the phone last week that we should go to her favorite karaoke bar and then have a bonfire in the woods behind her house, she’d screamed with glee and called me a genius.
And now, here we were, already drunk at nine o’clock and giggling as we flipped through the karaoke song log at Lobster Larry’s.
“Let’s do ‘Spice Up Your Life’,” Morgan slurred, clinging to my arm as she pressed her freshly manicured fingertip on the song title.
“Too obvious,” I said, flipping the page. “What about Fleetwood Mac?”
“Too sad.” Morgan touched her finger to her lip, thinking. “I want a crowd pleaser, something everyone will sing with us.”
I wrinkled my nose, taking a sip from my martini, which was shitty compared to the ones I was used to being served in Oakland, but not bad for Lobster Larry’s. “Please don’t say Journey.”
“What about… Shania?”
At that, we locked drunk eyes, devious smiles spreading on our painted lips.
And ten minutes later, we were on the makeshift stage that was barely any higher than the floor, singing “Man! I Feel Like A Woman” at the top of our lungs to a surprisingly packed bar.
Lobster Larry’s was a classic New England dive, complete with a full menu of fried seafood and a plethora of sea captain photos hanging on every inch of every wood-paneled wall. Around the photos hung fishing net, old broken ship helms, star fishes and seashells, and antique Moxie soda signs and memorabilia. The lighting was dim, the bar filled with smoke, and you had to squat over the toilet when you went to pee, because trust me when I say you did not want your ass on that porcelain.
As far as we’d known, there had never been a Larry who owned or managed the bar, but it was famous for its lobster rolls — that and the fact that you could get a pitcher of any domestic beer for five dollars Monday through Friday.
And since it was a Monday, there was no better place to be.
There were three microphones available on stage, but Morgan and I shared one, both of us wrapping our hands around the handle and leaning in to giggle our way through the song. It was our first one together, but it wouldn’t be our last.
We were just warming up.
In the bar, it was mostly the bridal party — Morgan’s parents were there, along with my Aunt Laura, then there was Oliver, of course, and three of his friends from Boston who had driven up for the party. His parents weren’t in town yet, but from what he’d told us, they weren’t the kind of parents who would hang out at Lobster Larry’s, anyway.
And where Oliver had just a few close friends, Morgan filled the rest of the bar with hers, extending an invite to the girls we used to hang out with in high school, a good amount of her sorority sisters from college, and the girlfriends she’d made through intermingling with Oliver’s friends.