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Betting on Bailey

Page 70

“I have papers to correct, Sebastian,” she says sternly. “About this party,” she says to Daniel. “When is it?”

“In a week. Saturday night. It’s at the MOMA,” he adds persuasively.

She rolls her eyes. “Of course it is.” She gives the essay she’s reading an A, then looks up. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Daniel? I’d love to go, but I don’t want to put your deal at risk. Is it worth it for something that has an expiration date?”

I sit up at that. “What do you mean, has an expiration date?”

She doesn’t meet our eyes. “Look, you guys have a bet to win and I want to beat Trevor. What we are doing is nice, and I’m really enjoying myself. But is it real?”

Daniel has gone still on the other side of me. “What do you mean, is it real? What are you talking about? You think we are here right now because of the stupid bet?”

“Look at me,” I order Bailey, and she reluctantly listens. “Here’s the only question that matters. What do you want? Do you want us to have an expiration date?”

I can’t breathe as I wait for her answer, but she doesn’t leave us hanging for long. “No,” she whispers. “I really don’t want this to end.”

Though her words are exactly what I want to hear, I can tell from her expression that there’s something she’s not telling us. I exchange a glance with Daniel. I wonder if he knows what’s going on.

30

I would rather walk with a friend in the dark, than alone in the light.

Helen Keller

Bailey:

“So,” Wendy looks expectantly at me. “Tell us everything.”

I’ve missed the last three Monday night drinking sessions. The first week, I’d missed it because I’d left, filled with a sense of righteous indignation, to tell Daniel Hartman exactly what I thought about his stupid endowment. The last two weeks, work has been a bitch and I’ve had to work late every evening to keep my head above water. The midterm assignment of the undergraduate Introduction to Cultural Anthropology class is to write a twenty-page paper. I’ve been reading about the cultural impact of Miley Cyrus, twerking, and Lady Gaga’s meat dress all weekend. I’m very up-to-date on pop culture right now.

In my absence, the girls couldn’t get their curiosity sated. It’s Monday night again, and I’m around, which means it’s time for the drinking and the inquisition. Four sets of eyes are staring at me, waiting for me to describe the last few weeks of my life. Normally, there’d be a virtual set of eyes as well, but Miki texted earlier, saying she couldn’t Skype in.

“Okay, what do you know so far?” I ask. I’m not entirely displeased about being ambushed for details. Daniel’s request for me to attend his company party has confused me, and our discussion about whether our relationship’s expiration date has set my head spinning. I need the collective wisdom of the women in this room.

“No, no, no.” Piper’s in her customary place at the rocking chair, Jasper curled up on her lap. “That’s a delaying tactic. Out with it. Tell us everything.”

“Where should I start?” I sigh. “I’m having a threesome with two ridiculously hot guys.”

“Yes,” Wendy’s voice is impatient. “We know. Daniel Hartman and Sebastian Ardalan.”

“Right. And you guys know about the bet?”

“What bet?”

“I thought I told you,” I frown at Gabby. “Daniel bet Clark fifty grand that I’d win my tournament game at the end of this season. Also, no offense, Gabby, but your friend Clark’s a dick.”

She grimaces. “Trust me, Bails, Clark Ellis isn’t my friend. He’s just a co-worker.”

“They bet on you?” Wendy looks intrigued. “Are you mad at them?”

“No way,” I laugh. “Are you kidding me? I want to beat Trevor, remember? They are giving me a ton of coaching.”

“No doubt,” Katie interjects slyly.

“I meant with my pool game,” I blush, and the girls all laugh at me. I flip them off and drink some of the delicious mojitos that Gabby, our resident mixed-drink genius, has made.

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