“Oh stop, stop. You’re embarrassing me,” she said as she took a took a sip of her wine. “This is delish. Are you going to have some?” She waggled the bottle of white at me.
I shook my head. “Wine makes me sleepy.” I tapped my coffee mug. “I need to be ready at a moment’s notice.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s not as if you’re already working 36-hour shifts as a resident.”
“I know. But you have to train early to stay awake for days.”
“All I can say is, thank God I’m a creative writing major. And speaking of, why isn’t anyone making me an offer to turn Karina’s Burn Book into a movie? I had 300,000 visitors last month,” she said, then reached for a handful of cherry jelly beans from the glass bowl on the table, popping some into her mouth.
I reminded Anaka of her plight in her quest to snag a movie deal for her blog. “Because no one knows you’re the amazing, all-powerful force behind the blog.”
“But seriously. Do you think Karina’s Burn Book would make a hilarious movie or even a TV show?” she asked, because Anaka dreamed of being a screenwriter, and had even written three original scripts that I personally thought were everything any studio could ever want—she had humor, mystery, romance, and happy endings in all her scripts. But she didn’t want to rely on nepotism, so she wouldn’t show her father, Graham Griffin, any of her screenplays, nor her Web site that I was sure could somehow be turned into a movie too—just add plot.
“Yes. Provided you can weave in a story, some peril and an antagonist.”
“An antagonist?” she said with a snort. “Everyone is an antagonist as far as Karina is concerned. Because nearly everyone commits fashion crimes.”
“There you go. Now all you need is a plot.”
“Karina fends off a dangerous paparazzo,” she said, suggesting a storyline immediately.
I laughed. “Speaking of a dangerous paparazzo, or dangerously attractive ones, I ran into a constitutionally good-looking fellow shooter tonight,” I said, as I tapped my pencil against the notebook sheet in front of me that was filled with organic chemistry formulas.
“Constitutionally good-looking? That high up in the ranks?”
“So good-looking, his looks would have to be codified and written into all the law books as a special amendment,” I said, then twirled the pencil between my thumb and forefinger, and sighed as I remembered William’s handsomeness.
“I trust you procured pictures?”
“For Karina’s Burn Book?”
“No, for me.” She banged a fist on the table. “Photographic evidence of constitutional hotness must always be shared. It’s the democratic way.”
“No. But I kissed him by the beach.”
Anaka shrieked and nearly spilled her wine. I loved shocking her. “Details, Jess. I want every sordid detail.”
I dropped the pencil on the table, spread out my hands wide as if I were a screenwriter pitching a new script in a producer’s office. Because this–scripting a life like the movies–was the one thing that took the edge off me. “Imagine if you were casting the perfect romantic comedy with a hot British guy. But not a tortured hero. The completely irresistible, charming hero.”
“Why are you talking to me then? Why are you not making out with him right now?”
That was a good question. That kiss was epic, and I could still feel the aftereffects in my body hours later. All I had to do was close my eyes, replay, and I’d be right back on the beach savoring William’s lips on mine. Of course, I could also rewind to our conversations, to his relaxed and easy way of chatting, whether about food or about the roles we all played. Or to his quick reflexes in saving me from the cyclist.
I wondered if the scratch on his forehead was hurting him. If he needed me to kiss it and make it better.
As soon as I thought that, I wanted to smack myself. I needed to get him out of my head now.
“You know why,” I said, as I pointed to the tuition due notice in the middle of our table, scattered on top of our mail, including Jennifer’s therapy dog renewal certificate. Anaka knew well and good that romance didn’t mesh with me. Just the memory of those out-of-control days sophomore year when I’d become beholden to food made me cringe. I was a control girl, and had every intention of staying one. That’s why I took that brief hit of William and nothing more. Okay, more like a long and lingering hit. The kind that could feed a late-night fantasy alone in my bedroom.
“You are so not fun,” she said with a huff. “Why did you kiss him if you don’t want to go on at least one date?”
“Because all I wanted was a quick fix, nothing more. I need to focus on finishing my senior year and paying for med school next year. There is no time for boys, guys or men. Speaking of love, is there any chance you can find out where in Malibu Belle and Bowman are getting hitched? I hear it’s at one of their good friend’s homes. And I need that shot to pay for next year.”
“Sure,” she said. Even though Anaka didn’t believe in nepotism for herself, she took advantage of tidbits her dad might drop and fed them to me. We were quite symbiotic.
“Are you going to the wedding?”
She scoffed. “As if. Besides, if I had gotten an invite don’t you think I would have told you? My dad’s definitely going though so I’ll see if I can get some details. Let’s get Kennedy on it too,” she said, and opened up an email.