Give in to that lover-boy of yours.

Dedication

To L.R.,

Give in to that lover-boy of yours.

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1

Naomi

“Get the hell out of my house,” I groan. My ridiculous ex-boyfriend found his way to my front door unannounced, again. As if he had any right to be a part in my life after he’d cheated on me with my ex-best friend. As if he hadn’t already given up any chance to be a part of my past, present, or future.

I have a lot of “ex’s” all of a sudden.

“Naomi, please,” Cameron pleads as I slam the door shut and fasten the lock. I really don’t have time for another one of his escapades.

The last one brought the police, and this is not the kind of neighborhood where you want police showing up at your front door.

I latched all four door locks and the dead bolt. Like I said, not a great neighborhood.

“Someday, Naomi, you’re gonna get out of this place,” I murmur to myself as I walk away from the Fort Knox doorway.

Away from the ex-lover who’s screaming my name from the front porch. Away from a life that used to make sense.

We were Cameron and Naomi. Naomi and Cameron. Best friends since childhood. Girlfriend and boyfriend since high school. On the one-way track to fiancé-dom. Until somebody decided to sleep with Rita, the ex-college roommate, ex-BFF that I would’ve picked as my maid of honor.

There is no honor in a foolish girl like that.

Ugh.

I stroll across the room and pop open the fridge. With Cameron wailing my name, going outside is out of the question. I take inventory of my last four bottles of liquor. One is bright blue, like an abnormal seascape. Another has gold flecks at the bottom. Best when warm, I think with a smile. Another is pink, and the last one is a tall bottle of vodka.

Vodka it is.

I grab the tall bottle and a few lonely limes from the bottom of my nearly empty fridge. I place the limes on my fancy wooden cutting board from that designer chef store at the mall.

I may have overindulged when I needed some retail therapy. After

Cameron and Rita. I sigh as I pull out my sharp steak knife that the cute little salesman said could cut through anything.

Hmm. That’s a thought, I realize. I could shred up the photos and his

remaining shirts in my closet with my handy new steak knife.

Maybe after I finish bottle number one.

“Naomi, please!”

I slice six limes in half and douse them with some of those fancy

salt crystals from my new restaurant grade saltshaker. Next, I lick the skin right between my thumb and index finger, then sprinkle more salt into the area. Mmm.

I might have a problem, because I’m getting quite good at drinking

my drama away.

“Naomi!” Cameron is still calling out. I remind myself that I don’t

care about that ugly gross cheater and pour a shot of vodka into each of my six European shot glasses.

“For London,” I say, one hand holding the lime and the other

holding my shot glass. I lick the lime, then toss back my first spicy shot of liquor.

Oh, the head rush. Cameron’s whiny little voice sounds less

annoying.

Nope, next shot. “For Rome,” I add, downing another shot. I don’t

care about that jerk, and his voice is fading away as my vision focuses on the remaining shot glasses.

“Naomiiiii!”

Mmm. I lick the lime again, savoring its sour flavor. The salt ran out

already, but that’s okay. “For Edinburgh,” I chide, then “For Madrid.”

My head is already spinning. “For Paris.”

“Nachami!” I think that awful voice says. Meh. He can’t figure out

my name, or maybe I’m a bit tipsy already. I grab the last one. “For Lisbon and all the beautiful sea people,” I laugh, downing the last one.

Why did I cut so many limes?

And why am I wasting my time with shot glasses? I shrug and toss my lime on the counter. I grab the vodka bottle and

head back to the living room.

I settle into a comfortable spot on the sofa and hug the bottle against

my chest. My life is disintegrating, so I might as well drink.

Who cares if I’m all alone? Who cares if I had never pictured that

my life would end up like this?

“Namamioh!” that groveling disaster calls from somewhere outside.

“Fine, you stupid bitch!”

I shrug. I don’t want anything to do with him, and right now, the

only man I’m interested in is Mr. Vodka. My cell phone buzzes in my pocket, so I pick it up and stare at it.

Weird. There’s an ad in my email for a new dating app. Whatever. What’s the worst that could happen? I take another long swig of my vodka before I open the app and start

setting up my profile.

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