BAILEY
Chase’s truck engine roared as he pulled out of the visitor parking lot and turned back onto the street. In a daze, I made my way down the sidewalk and up the three concrete stairs to my front door. My head was spinning, my hands were shaking, and I was questioning everything I thought I knew.
I had dinner with Chase Carter. And I kind of liked it.
Clearly, there was a snag in the space-time continuum, and I had been transported to an alternate universe. Or the apocalypse was nigh. One of the two, anyway.
I unlocked the deadbolt and held my breath, praying no one else was home. It was shortly after nine, so the odds were in my favor. The navy blue door swung open with a creak, revealing a dark, quiet, and blessedly roommate-free house. I hung up my parka and heaved a sigh, the tension in my body easing. Maybe it was a little pitiful to be home alone on a Saturday night, but the solitude was a welcome reprieve from the interrogation I was sure to face in the near future.
I flipped on the porch light and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water before going straight to my bedroom. Amelia and Jillian were probably staying over at the house Paul and Mendez shared with Luke, but there was still a chance they would come home tonight. And if they did, I would definitely pretend to be asleep.
Then I walked upstairs, pulling out my phone to survey the extent of the damage to my personal life. Not surprisingly, I had three missed calls and
fifteen new texts. I already had a pretty good idea what they said, and I had no interest in engaging in discussion about Chase, my personal life, or any combination thereof. Instead, I opened each message without looking at its contents, then left them all on read to let everyone know I was still alive.
Not that it was my safety they were worried about. It was loyalty.
The following morning, I was sitting at the island eating a bowl of strawberry granola with milk and minding my own business when I was ambushed. Jillian and Amelia descended the staircase in tandem, like they’d been plotting military strategy upstairs. They came into the kitchen, pinning me with gimlet eyes and circling like sharks.
My stomach sank, appetite vanishing. Jillian came to a stop and leaned against the counter, facing me. Amelia continued to pace nervous circles on the tile flooring. Their outfits even coordinated. Both wore black sweaters and dark jeans. Whether the clothing choice was intentional or not, this was clearly a straight-up intervention.
Jillian was only five-three and a hundred pounds soaking wet, and Amelia wasn’t much bigger, but the effect of the two of them combined was oddly intimidating.
“Carter, B?” Amelia gestured wildly, her perfectly arched brows knit together. “What in the world is going on?”
I glanced up from my half-empty bowl and set my spoon in the pink milk. “We’re friends,” I said. “That’s all.”
Jillian crinkled her nose. “Why?”
Annoyance simmered in the pit of my stomach, bitter and burning. It wasn’t like I was president of the Chase Carter Fan Club all of a sudden, but her condescending tone rubbed me the wrong way.
Especially when they all kissed Luke’s ass constantly. And especially when she’d barely spoken to me all week.
“Why not?” I slurped my coffee, intentionally being obnoxious.
Amelia blinked rapid-fire, like a machine gun of disbelief. “But you hate him. We hate him.”
“And I used to like Luke. Funny how things change, huh?”
“I—” She faltered.
Jill’s white Apple Watch vibrated, and she looked down, frowning. “I have to take this.” She rushed back upstairs, ponytail bouncing as she took the carpeted steps two at a time. Something was off.
“Is she fighting with Mendez?” I asked Amelia.
Jill and Mendez had been dating for over a year, but their relationship had been volatile from the start. They were both crazy jealous and prone to toxic behavior like flirting with other people and ghosting each other. In the spring, they’d gone through an especially tumultuous patch where they fought every weekend, complete with dramatic blowouts, door-slamming, and phone hang-ups. There were a lot of alcohol-soaked tears on her part. And sometimes his. But things had been more stable with them lately. Slightly.
Something flashed across Amelia’s face that I didn’t quite catch. “Er, no. They’re fine. I think it was about work.”
At nine o’clock on a Sunday? Jillian worked at a swimwear boutique, and they didn’t even open until noon. Plus, she was a sales associate, not management. It didn’t add up.
“Stop changing the subject.” Amelia retrieved a black mug from the cupboard and filled it from the pot of coffee I’d brewed earlier. “Seriously,
B. Chase Carter? Do I need to be worried about you?”
“No, I’m fine,” I said brightly. “Peachy.” I did feel pretty good, all things considered. Earlier this week, Zara told me about a trick her old therapist taught her. Picturing the person who’d wronged you in diapers— because only babies or small children act that way, or something like that. I’ll admit, I was skeptical; it sounded silly, not to mention a little weird. But I tried it with Luke, and actually, it kind of worked.
He was a man-child.
Despite the horrible way it had come about, I was starting to think I was better off. A huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. No more walking on eggshells, no more trying to please him, and maybe, most of all, no more worrying about what he was doing behind my back.
Being attached to someone wasn’t the same as being in love with them, but I hadn’t quite realized that before. That’s not to say the fallout from the breakup was easy to deal with. My social circle was crumbling around me, and I had a hunch Luke was putting on the pressure with his friends to speed the destruction along.
At any rate, Amelia’s concern lacked authenticity, given that this was the first time we’d even spoken at length since last Sunday. I had tried to connect with her, but she’d made excuses about being busy. When it came down to it, I doubted anyone was truly concerned for my well-being; their own agendas trumped their loyalty to me.
Amelia narrowed her eyes. “If you say so.”
“Moving on,” I said. “Do you want to catch a movie this week? That new rom-com, Kiss Me, just came out. It looks super cute.” With the way things were going, I could definitely use the escapism of a happily ever after with a side of movie theater popcorn and giant bag of candy.
“Um…I don’t know.” She looked away, setting her mug down. “I’m pretty busy with this group project I have for Developmental Psych, plus there’s a game on Tuesday night. And I think I might go for dinner with Paul on Thursday. I’m pretty booked. Sorry, B.”
“Okay. How about we do something tomorrow or Wednesday then?” I took a bite of my cereal, finishing the last of it and debating whether she would judge me for drinking the strawberry milk from the bowl. Then I did it anyway, because I no longer cared.
She fidgeted with the sleeve of her yellow sweater, picking off a piece of lint with her gold-painted nails. “I have to work on that project then too.”
Uh-huh.
Fine. I would ask Zara and Noelle.
“Is this about me and Luke?” I asked, setting down the bowl. “Breakups aren’t contagious, Amelia. You can still hang out with me.”
“No…” She trailed off, wincing. There was a long pause before she continued. “It’s just that Paul is really pissed about the whole Carter thing.”
What on earth? Who the hell was Paul to be angry with me for anything? We were barely even friends.
“Who I hang out with is none of Paul’s business. Like, literally zero percent.”
“He sees it as being disloyal to the team.” Amelia took a sip of coffee, hiding behind the gigantic mug so she didn’t have to meet my eyes.
I gritted my teeth. “I didn’t realize I was a part of the team. Which position do I play?”
“You know what I mean,” she said. “Luke is one of his best friends.” And I was supposed to be one of hers.
“But it’s fine for Luke to be disloyal to me as a person?” I snorted. “To dump me on my birthday, after having probably cheated on me again? I don’t see anyone giving him grief.”
Of course they wouldn’t. He was team captain; practically their god. It was a high school clique dynamic to a T, and he was the ringleader. Then it hit me: Luke was the mean girl of the Bulldogs. He was Regina George. On skates.
“Please don’t put me in a position where I have to choose, B.”
I stood up and put my bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. Slamming it shut a little harder than necessary, I turned back to her. “I’m not the one who’s doing that,” I said. “Your boyfriend is.”
