“You brought out Parrot Bay?” Farrah winces. “I’m guessing today didn’t go well?”

“An understatement.” I take a giant sip from my straw. “Grab one, join me. There’s a strawberry daiquiri with your name on it.”

Farrah, being the loyal friend she is, doesn’t even ask questions. Nope, she strips out of her pants—just like I did—leaves them in the entryway, and then goes to the freezer, where she collects her sugar-laden alcoholic beverage of choice and joins me.

We clink the plastic bags together, and Farrah starts decorating her fingers with cookies as well.

I nibble on one of mine but don’t break it off. Frankly, these decorative cookie rings are the only thing I have going for me at the moment.

“Lay it on me. Was the competition tough?”

“Lesbians,” I mutter, leaning back, my booze bag clutched to my chest.

“Lesbians are on the show?”

I nod. “The lesbians—”

“Names, Luna, names. I know you’re upset, but lesbians have names too.”

I give her a look. “Luciana and Amanda, along with Amanda’s overbearing mother, named Helen, who sat on my stomach while we had to collect items for the theme of our wedding.”

“Luciana and Amanda,” Farrah says dreamily. “Short or long hair?”

“What? Long—blonde and brunette. Does it matter?”

“Long-haired lesbians—oh, I see you, Wedding Game, trying to get the male demographic involved.” She shakes her head. “Perverts.”

“Are you even listening? Get over the lesbians. A middle-aged woman sat on my stomach today.”

“I heard you. I thought the lesbians were more important than your demise. It’s not very often you get to see lesbians in the wild, especially on television.”

“That’s not true. There’s plenty of lesbian representation.”

“Name some. Name some major network TV series that have lesbians.”

“Well . . . Ellen—”

“Got canceled shortly after the gay episode. Next.”

“Will & Grace—”

“Main characters are stereotypical gay men that the media portrays as fun and exciting. What about the fun and exciting lesbians? They’re always tool-belt wearing, short haired, and hot tempered.”

I think on it, truly think on it, and yes, she has a point, but there has to be some lesbian representation . . .

“Glee . . . oh, and duh, Grey’s Anatomy.”

She mulls it over, sips her pouch, and says, “I’ll give you Grey’s Anatomy.”

“Oh, and The Fosters.”

“Ehh, not major network TV.”

“This is getting off topic.”

“Just trying to give the lesbians some love.”

“Which I appreciate because lesbians need love too . . . but can we focus on how the elderly sat on me today?”

“Yes, sorry.” She clears her throat. “So a crazy mom sat on you.”

“She did, but if I’m honest, that’s not the worst thing that happened to me.”

“A lady sitting on you is tame? In comparison to what?” She bites down on a cookie and eats it whole. “What the hell happened?”

Staring off, I mutter, “Alec Baxter.”

“Ohhh, I’m intrigued. Who is this Alec Baxter you speak of?”

“Brother to one of the contestants. Divorce attorney. Rude. Thought I was a production assistant.”

“How so?”

We both take long sips of our drinks, and the bitter cold of the frozen alcohol hits me directly in the brain, freezing it over for a few torturous moments. Once the pain subsides, I say, “He stopped me on set and demanded I bring him coffee.”

“He didn’t,” Farrah gasps.

“He did.” I chew on a cookie, narrowing it down to just a ring that I easily pop in my mouth. “Yelled at me, actually, for not refilling the carafe, blamed me for having to get to set early, and sure, he said ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ but he didn’t mean it. You can’t say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ with malice dripping off the tip of your tongue.”

“God, I hate when malice drips,” Farrah says sarcastically.

“Dripping malice is hot garbage.”

“Total hot garbage.” We clink our drinks again and down them until the bags are sucked dry. “Want another?” Farrah asks.

“Do you even have to ask?”

She gets up from the couch and heads to the freezer, where she pokes holes in the bags with our reusable straws. “So, he asked you for coffee—the nerve. Then what?”

“His brother told him to apologize to me for being rude.”

“So manners do run in the family, even if some of them drip with malice.” Farrah hands me my drink and starts stacking her fingers with cookies again.

“Very few manners, but they’re there.”

“Did he apologize?”

Cheeks puckered, I suck hard, swallow, and then say, “No. Instead, he came over to my workbench in between takes and started insulting me.” Granted, I might have started the name-calling, but Farrah doesn’t need to know that.

“What did he say?”

“Called me ‘repugnant.’” Farrah’s eyes widen. “And then he said 1990 wanted their bedazzler back.” With my cookie-heavy fingers, I drag them carefully over my beautiful sequin shirt.

Farrah sits up, brows sharpening in pure anger. “He did not.”

I nod. “He so did.”

Looking away, she whispers, “The motherfucker.”

“And to top it all off, we had to put together the themes for the wedding today, and Cohen, Declan, and I built a beautiful vision board for a modern rustic wedding.”

“That’s so Cohen and Declan.”

“Right?” I groan and lean my head back against the couch. “The les—”

“Luciana and Amanda.”

“Right, sorry, you would think I’d be more sensitive. Blame the stress of it all.” I slurp some more booze, starting to feel the effects of all the sugar and alcohol combined. “Luciana and Amanda put together a boho-chic wedding that made my soul clench with jealousy. God, it was gorgeous, so dreamy.” I roll my head to the side and look Farrah in the eye. “And then there was Team Baxter.”

“Pretentious?”

“If only.” I shake my head. “No, it was themed ‘Flamingo Dancer.’ Which makes no sense whatsoever. There were flamingos on their vision board, but the dance is actually pronounced flamenco, and the dancer traditionally wears red with ruffles. It was a hot mess on all fronts.”

“What did they have?”

“Pink, yellow, and green with feathers.”

“Oh God, that seems hideous.”

“It was . . . and yet, the judges picked it for first place and put Team Rossi in last place.”

“No way. You can’t be serious.”

I fiddle with my straw. “Wish I was joking. The judges picked it as their favorite theme, which I’m still racking my brain over. They had palm leaves, for fuck’s sake. Palm leaves.” I sigh heavily and shake my head. “How am I supposed to help Cohen and Declan win when I’m faced with a theme board that would have been more aptly named ‘A Night in 1980s Miami’?”

“Oh, I like that title. I totally would have picked it, based on the title.”

“Farrah.”

“Oh right, yeah. Boo, Team Baxter. Kick them in the crotch, right in the dingles.”

“Maybe no kicks to crotches. Naomi, the soon-to-be wife, is pregnant. The baby doesn’t need to know they’re going to be birthed into a world where people get kicked in the crotch over a wedding competition.”

“You’re right. Better let the kid figure that out on their own. But I’m ready to throw some punches.”

“I could punch.” I pop a cookie in my mouth and lick the melted chocolate off my finger. “I would punch Alec Baxter right in his stupid handsome face.”

“Uhhhh, hold on a second.” Farrah perks up. “You said handsome.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Umm, you didn’t mention that he’s handsome in your rant.”

“What does it matter?” I ask.

“It changes the whole dynamic. You could be hate-crushing on him.”

“Have you lost your mind?” I tuck my legs under my butt and curl into my drink, clutching it tightly to my chest while I sip. “I am not hate-crushing on the man. I don’t even know him.”

“You don’t need to know him to crush on him. Looks alone can get the heart pitter-pattering.”

“Trust me. There was no pitter-pattering around him.”

“Okay, then, tell me this: What does he look like?”

Not giving it a second thought, I say, “Chris Evans, freshly shaven, straight from the gym.”

Oh crap.

Farrah throws her head back and laughs. “Oh my God, you are so hate-crushing on him.”

“I am not.” I bite off my last cookie and chew. “Okay, so yeah, he’s attractive, in this Hollywood-hunk type of way, but who really likes Hollywood hunks?”

“Everybody, even your brother.”

“He’s gay—he doesn’t count.”

“Oh, he counts. His opinion counts the most.” Farrah snags my phone from my hand and starts typing away.

“What are you doing?”

“Asking Cohen if he thinks Chris Evans is attractive.”

“No.” I fling my body over hers and take the phone away. “He’ll know I’m talking about Alec. Even Declan said he looks like Chris Evans.” I set my phone to the side, as far away from Farrah as possible. “Fine, Chris Evans is gorgeous and Alec Baxter has the face of an angel, all chiseled and perfect with smoldering green eyes.”

Farrah snorts. “You said smolder. Oh, you are so crushing on him. Bet you wish he was the one sitting on you rather than the demon lady.”