Page 70 of Boyfriend
“Ugh,” she’d said, and I’d heard copious nose-blowing. “It just stings. I’ve been thinking about him since November. But he didn’t spend any of that time thinking about me.”
Then she’d dissolved into tears again, and I’d hurried toward the bathroom.
That poor girl. My heart breaks for her, because I'm pretty sure her friend has it exactly right. Weston is just like she said—a great guy who lives for fun, with a talent for making everyone feel special.
Right this moment he's massaging my shoulder with a loving hand. I feel the same wonderful connection between us that Cara had. But one day soon I'll be Cara. I’ll be sitting in my tiny New York apartment, wishing he’d return my texts.
Or maybe I'll run into Weston someday at a reunion. He'll call me Amy or Annie. “It's Abbi,” I'll say.
And he'll feel bad that he's forgotten. But he will have forgotten.
Just ask Cara.
"Abbi," he says suddenly. And I startle, as if my thoughts are so loud that he might overhear them.
"Mmm?" I say casually. As if any of this were casual for me. Maybe Weston doesn’t know how to do commitment, but I'm just the opposite. I crave commitment. And love. A family, and a place to call home. All the things I don’t have in my life.
“Where did you go?” he asks.
“No place at all,” I assure him, lifting my face to smile at him. “I’m right here.”
It’s just that I wish I could stay. Even though I know I can’t.
Twenty-Five
Property of Abbi and Weston
Weston
I wake up in an empty bed. Rolling over, I look around for Abbi. But she's not here.
Her phone is, though. In fact, I think her ringing phone is what just woke me up. When I grab it off the bedside table, the screen says: Caller is DALTON.
Even though the call has already gone to voicemail, I decide that it could be important. So I heave my groggy self into an upright position and don the Westie pants Abbi gave me for Christmas. Then I start looking for her.
It's just after seven a.m., so the house is quiet. Abbi is the only one awake. She's seated herself at the kitchen table, where the last two remaining slices of cake are positioned with a card I’d printed before going to bed last night: PROPERTY OF ABBI AND WESTON. DO NOT EAT UNDER PENALTY Of DEATH.
"Cake for breakfast, huh?"
She startles. "I didn't hear you come downstairs." And when she meets my gaze, her eyes are red-rimmed.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“Of course.”
Hmm. “Your eyes are red.”
“That happens sometimes. I made coffee. I hope that's okay.”
“Of course it’s okay.” I put her phone on the table. “This says that Dalton called.”
“Oh! Sorry. Hope it wasn’t too loud.”
“It's fine, baby.” She seems a little brittle, but I can’t quite put my finger on why.
“I'll check to see if the coffee is done. Here’s a fork.” She positions the cake plate between us.
“Thank you.”
