Read Online Drinking and Tweeting by Brandi Glanville, Leslie Bruce - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brandi Glanville, Leslie Bruce
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Like they say: Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, go fuck yourself. Or maybe that’s just me who says that.
During the divorce of yet another close friend, I was by her side for the entire roller coaster and, again, moved her into my guest room. (I should have started renting that place out by the night.) Unlike my stylist friend, this was a girl I grew up with. We met in Europe as teenagers and traveled the world together—we even had our first threesome together! We were as close as any twofriends could be. Eventually, we both moved back to LA and met our future husbands—who also became great friends. We were bridesmaids in each other’s weddings and spent most weekends together. It couldn’t have worked out better if we had planned it, except that we both married fucking douche bags.
When I was having dark moments, she tried to be there for me the best she could, but she was still struggling herself. One night she tried to take me to Shamrock on Sunset Boulevard to get my first tattoo, telling me it would be the first step on the road to self-discovery. I considered getting just a little heart someplace private. I’d never considered it before, so I got two steps inside the tattoo parlor before my better judgment kicked in: MILFs don’t have ink.
She was my sister in a lot of ways, but I could sense a growing distance between us over time. Months went by, and she became increasingly unavailable—to talk, to work out, and even to party (which was a rarity for my group of girlfriends). I was totally baffled, but she promised me nothing was wrong.
Shortly after, it all made sense.
One afternoon, a mutual friend sent me an e-mail with a link to paparazzi photos. I opened the link and got my breath knocked out of me. Staring back at me from the computer screen was my best friend of more than fifteen years walking down the street and laughing with my husband’s new wife. I leaned in closer to the screen, certain I wasn’t seeing this correctly.
Why would my friend for nearly half my life be hanging out with my ex-husband’s new wife? The woman who sat by my side during some of my darkest hours was now parading around town with the same woman who caused me all that pain. With shaky hands, I fumbled through my purse for my cell phone, flipped it open, and dialed her number. There was no answer. She had to have known I would figure all of this out eventually, even though these photographs were “oh so candid.”
When we finally spoke, she had an excuse for everything. She had been a bit distant because she was trying to work things out with her ex-husband. She assumed that would be difficult for me to deal with, seeing as I was still struggling with my own divorce. As for LeAnn, well, my friend’s ex-husband and Eddieremained friends after both of our divorces and were hanging out a lot (translation: hitting on cocktail waitresses). Her ex had asked her to spend time with LeAnn as a part of their reconciliation, so my friend agreed. She swore to me that she only did it to pacify her ex-husband, and “it didn’t mean anything.”
“Hmm, I’ve already heard that line from Eddie,” I thought, not interested in the bullshit she was trying to sell me. Even if you were pointing a gun at my head, you could never force me to sit in the same room with my best friend’s homewrecker, and I sure as hell wasn’t going for fucking iced lattes and shopping sprees with her.
How could my friend do that to me? I was absolutely beside myself that she was willing to throw away our decades-long friendship just for the opportunity to be the background girl in all of LeAnn’s paparazzi shots. Was having your photo taken that important? I knew that in the back of her head she had always thought that she should be famous, but, really? I guess friends really are a dime a dozen.
As much as I hold my friend accountable for thedemise of our relationship, in the back of my head I knew this was somehow LeAnn’s doing. She
During the divorce of yet another close friend, I was by her side for the entire roller coaster and, again, moved her into my guest room. (I should have started renting that place out by the night.) Unlike my stylist friend, this was a girl I grew up with. We met in Europe as teenagers and traveled the world together—we even had our first threesome together! We were as close as any twofriends could be. Eventually, we both moved back to LA and met our future husbands—who also became great friends. We were bridesmaids in each other’s weddings and spent most weekends together. It couldn’t have worked out better if we had planned it, except that we both married fucking douche bags.
When I was having dark moments, she tried to be there for me the best she could, but she was still struggling herself. One night she tried to take me to Shamrock on Sunset Boulevard to get my first tattoo, telling me it would be the first step on the road to self-discovery. I considered getting just a little heart someplace private. I’d never considered it before, so I got two steps inside the tattoo parlor before my better judgment kicked in: MILFs don’t have ink.
She was my sister in a lot of ways, but I could sense a growing distance between us over time. Months went by, and she became increasingly unavailable—to talk, to work out, and even to party (which was a rarity for my group of girlfriends). I was totally baffled, but she promised me nothing was wrong.
Shortly after, it all made sense.
One afternoon, a mutual friend sent me an e-mail with a link to paparazzi photos. I opened the link and got my breath knocked out of me. Staring back at me from the computer screen was my best friend of more than fifteen years walking down the street and laughing with my husband’s new wife. I leaned in closer to the screen, certain I wasn’t seeing this correctly.
Why would my friend for nearly half my life be hanging out with my ex-husband’s new wife? The woman who sat by my side during some of my darkest hours was now parading around town with the same woman who caused me all that pain. With shaky hands, I fumbled through my purse for my cell phone, flipped it open, and dialed her number. There was no answer. She had to have known I would figure all of this out eventually, even though these photographs were “oh so candid.”
When we finally spoke, she had an excuse for everything. She had been a bit distant because she was trying to work things out with her ex-husband. She assumed that would be difficult for me to deal with, seeing as I was still struggling with my own divorce. As for LeAnn, well, my friend’s ex-husband and Eddieremained friends after both of our divorces and were hanging out a lot (translation: hitting on cocktail waitresses). Her ex had asked her to spend time with LeAnn as a part of their reconciliation, so my friend agreed. She swore to me that she only did it to pacify her ex-husband, and “it didn’t mean anything.”
“Hmm, I’ve already heard that line from Eddie,” I thought, not interested in the bullshit she was trying to sell me. Even if you were pointing a gun at my head, you could never force me to sit in the same room with my best friend’s homewrecker, and I sure as hell wasn’t going for fucking iced lattes and shopping sprees with her.
How could my friend do that to me? I was absolutely beside myself that she was willing to throw away our decades-long friendship just for the opportunity to be the background girl in all of LeAnn’s paparazzi shots. Was having your photo taken that important? I knew that in the back of her head she had always thought that she should be famous, but, really? I guess friends really are a dime a dozen.
As much as I hold my friend accountable for thedemise of our relationship, in the back of my head I knew this was somehow LeAnn’s doing. She
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