Chapter Text
Peach Salinger wasn’t that type of woman.
She wasn’t the type to fantasize about how it would feel to pull at soft, pink lips between her teeth—or the flow of blonde hair spilling out of the crevices of her fingers. How smooth the surface of legs would feel wrapped around her head, or what sweet sounds would be emitted from her best friend’s open mouth as she buried her tongue deep into the sweet, wet, pulse in between her thighs.
No, Peach wasn’t that type of woman. Guinevere Beck was her best friend, her ride or die. Beck was to be protected, not lusted—Peach paused, correcting herself—fantasized, over. She rolled over in her bed, peacock feather stuffed covers cushioning around her, like a princess sinking into a cloud. Eyeing her nightstand, she reached her long, thin arms over the edge of her bed, perfectly manicured nails pinching the edges of the laptop. She opened the laptop, digital blue washing the faded rose from her clear skin. She was only checking in on her, like she always did. Always, every night, for the past seven years. Dainty fingers danced from key to key, not breaking rhythm for a single beat. They knew their dance by heart by now, knew exactly which order to click each letter, space, hyphen, to get to their grande finale.
Guinevere Beck’s Facebook page.
Beck’s meal of the night. Beck’s smile at the camera. Beck’s hair up—hair down. Beck’s new writing project. Beck’s outfit of the day—cashmere. Beck’s red lipstick. Pink lipstick. No lipstick, gloss. Beck’s night dress, Beck’s body. Body. Beck. Lips. Body.
Her eyes drank in every glowing pixel from the screen as she scrolled, unknowingly drawing blood as she bit into her cheek. Where was it? The notification, the clear ‘ding!’ that called her over like a bell does Pavlov's dog—the sound of a new post. She groaned, frustration building up in a way she hadn’t expected. What was Beck up to now? Where was she—who was she with? Probably in some trashy apartment fucking Bill of the Week. A prick of anger needled at her chest. Typical Beck. She could never choose where her loyalties lay.
Peach leaned away from the laptop, massaging her temples with a sharp inhale. It was fine. She was fine. She forgave Beck, it was only natural for Beck to need someone. That poor girl, where would she be without Peach? Lost, under some gross man’s sweaty body being used as a cocksleeve, is where. She sat up from the bed, leaving barely an indent behind on the mattress. She allowed herself to indulge in a small smile, pleased with how little her body had weighed. Peach glided over to the kitchen, searching the cabinets. There. She inspected the bottle of wine in her careful hands, its dark, burgundy insides still. Brewing.
By the time she was back in her bed, she was on her second glass…or was it her third? She had her photo book out in front of her, flipped to the exact middle of its spine. The book she kept in the very bottom drawer of her night stand, under papers of prestige and high end magazine covers. It was her book—their book.
The page that laid bare before her was one she had revisited many times before. There were a total of eight polaroids in the two page spread, four on each page. All four had been taken the same night, filed in chronological order; as if they were frozen stills of film, ready to be played. The first one had Beck—of course it did—in an offensively tiny brassiere, its laces providing more coverage than the fabric itself. Peach felt her tongue stick to the back of her throat as she traced a finger onto the swell of Beck’s breast, trailing down the well toned dip of her waist, and to the curve of her hip. Deliciously perfect. The only way a best friend of the Salinger’s should be. Worthy.
The next photo had Beck gliding flirtatious fingers in between the laces of her underwear, her perfect face held in someone’s hand. Probably a random stranger from the college party. Peach’s own hand wandered over to her stomach, curated nails ghosting over warm skin as they slipped under her nightgown. Beck was on the bed now, her lips parted in surprise and hair tossed over her face as if she had been thrown on her back—her body almost fully exposed. It was the perfect angle. Peach sighed, closing her eyes as an arm slowly lowered to the edge of her waistband. She didn’t need to see the rest, she already knew what was going to happen next. Beck on top, long, toned legs straddling a faceless hip. Beck’s face drawn in pure ecstasy as she hung her head back, a single fist tight in her hair.
‘Ding!’
Peach’s eyes shot open, her hand stilling.
Beck.
She fought the urge to jump for the laptop, to snap it open and be the first to view whatever new piece of Beck was just released into the web. Instead, she calmly slid her arm out from under her shirt, releasing the rim of her waistband that had been twisting in between her fingertips. Peach leaned forward, sitting up as she opened her laptop. She tucked a long strand of glossy black hair behind her ear, the product of many years of diligent conditioning and luxury oils.
‘Who needs men? They’re loud, brash, and have dicks for brains. If I wanted to hear lies all day, I'd go to my mother.’
A single tweet. Peach smiled. How cute of Beck, ranting on the internet like an angry teenager that just got cheated on for the first time. How naive of her to think that anyone would be listening? That anyone would care? Well, Peach cared, and that was all that Beck needed. She didn’t like the tweet, just let the mouse hover over the words on the screen. She watched as the views went up by 1, a small sense of pride warming her at the lone digit. She waited a few minutes. Five. Ten. Then clicked on the gmail icon at the bottom of the screen, typing out a message.
‘Beck!
How are you doing, sweetness? Are you feeling okay? I just saw your tweet and couldn’t help but need to check on you. Just say the word and I’ll be over with wine and sherbet. The gluten free ones that you love. (and if you didn’t already..trust me, you will!) Sometimes all you need to feel better is a comforting presence and someone who really cares about you.
Love,
Peach’
Peach left the laptop open, not bothering to wait for a response. She hummed happily as she rose from the bed, floating to her wardrobe. She slipped on a loose, white tee, shimmying a little to fit into her tight black leggings. As she walked past her bed, purse in hand, there was another ‘ding!’. Beck had responded.
“Oh Peach, thank you so much. You have no idea how much I need this. See you in a bit!
Love,
Beck”
Peach couldn’t help the flutter that rose from her breast, the thrill of being wanted—needed. She made her way over to the half finished bottle of wine and grabbed it, before grabbing another unopened one. Just in case.
After she had everything ready, she strided out of her manor, hair slicked back into a clean high ponytail. Everything about her was composed, elegant, despite the excited rush that powered her every controlled step. She stepped into her car, a sleek black McLaren. Setting down the items on the passenger seat, she let out a determined breath.
Beck was waiting for her, for someone who truly loved her. Who wouldn’t use, abuse, and then abandon her. Though, Beck’s line of shitty hookups made it seem like that’s what she wanted lately. But Beck didn’t know what she wanted. What she truly wanted.
A true friend.
And Peach wasn’t going to let her wait a moment longer.