“Since when do you drink tequila?” Cressida questions as she measures flour.

“I’m trying new things,” I say as I take a long sip. It’s better than I expect, although it’s probably because I know it could have been so much worse.

“Like sharing?” Emma asks slyly.

I sigh. “Is this about Adler Beck again?”

Anne enters the kitchen. “Aha! She does acknowledge it happened!”

“I’m not denying it happened. It was a fling. It’s over now. And no, I’m not giving you dick details.”

“Ugh, fine.” Emma takes a sip of her concoction.

“I did call him drunk a few weeks ago,” I admit, and my left arm is sprayed with tequila. “Emma!” I grab a napkin.

“Back the fuck up. You drunk-dialed Adler Beck? You have his number?” Emma shouts.

Anne and Cressida look equally stunned.

“Yup,” I confirm.

“He gave it to you?”

“Well, he stole mine and then texted me, technically.”

“What? Why?”

“To hook up, mostly.” I take another sip of my cocktail. “Didn’t think I’d need to explain that part.”

“Well, maybe it has something to do with the fact that you haven’t provided any details at all, but I was kind of assuming you met him at a club and had a quickie.”

“Yeah. The first time.”

“The first time? How many times did you have sex?” Cressida asks.

What is it with people asking me that? Do I have an expression that reads Ask me how many times I slept with Adler Beck? “I didn’t keep a tally.”

“Ballpark, then,” Emma presses.

“I don’t know. More than fifty?”

Silence. Stunned silence greets that admission. I probably should have lied, but I’m sick of lying. Sick of pretending Beck was just sex when I admitted to myself he wasn’t a long time ago.

“Holy fuck. You dated Adler Beck,” Cressida murmurs breathlessly.

“No, I did not. It was a fling,” I reiterate.

“Fifty times is not a fling, Saylor,” Emma informs me.

“A fling is whatever I think it is,” I retort.

“Were you guys exclusive?” Anne asks.

“I don’t know. We never talked about it.”

“Were you sleeping with other guys?” Emma questions.

“No,” I admit.

“I overheard Mackenzie Howard telling one of the other clinic leaders he would barely talk to her,” Anne contributes.

I shrug off the satisfaction. “It doesn’t matter. We’re done. I only called him at my dad’s wedding because I was drunk.”

“Your dad’s wedding?” Cressida questions.

I drain my glass. “Yeah. He and Sandra only got married a few weeks ago.”

“That’s why you went home,” Emma realizes, refilling my glass in what I’m sure is a ploy to loosen my lips more.

“Yeah,” I confirm.

“What about your mom?” Anne inquires quietly.

“She’s not around,” I say briskly.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly.

“Thanks,” I mumble, taking another long sip of my drink.