This is the way the world ends: not with a bang, but with the squeal of tires as my best friend and my girlfriend peel out of the driveway and head off towards their new life together somewhere at the other end of I-475. I should be devastated, furious, heartbroken, but all that I can think about is how thirsty I am, and how my now ex-girlfriend sipped calmly on our last Dr. Pepper as she told me, without batting an eyelash, that she had been sleeping with Ben Fullard for the last three months.
Apparently, refusing sex until marriage wasn’t gentlemanly. It was withholding.
And now I need a strong drink.
Not beer. I don’t do beer, not since Robbie died. Never again. But I could go for a coffee. Black. Just the way Christi didn’t like it. Just the way I didn’t know I liked it, either, until she told me that I wouldn’t.
That, of course, made me want to try it.
The more that I thought about it, the more that our whole relationship seemed like a contest:always trying to one-up each other, and the final test was seeing which one of us would hold out longest. Or, on the flip side, which one would crack and do something unforgivable first.
It was a wonder that Christi held out this long.
I should be upset right now.
Screw it. I’d decide when I was caffeinated.