Page 130 of Tell Me It’s Right

Maybe I’m not giving it a fair chance. Of course I’m uncomfortable being around girls who already know each other, not to mention they’re all at least five years older than me. But I was uncomfortable at first around all of the people I now consider friends too. I force down a big mouthful of beer and lean forward, trying to hear some of the conversation.

Waverly’s eyes flick to me and she tilts her head to the side. “Where are you from again, Gracie? Did you grow up in PA?”

“Jersey.”

“Ah.” She nods slowly in athat makes senseway.

Heather narrows her eyes thoughtfully. “What’s your sign?”

Aria snorts out a laugh. “Heather’s God is astrology.”

Heather shrugs.

“Um, I’m a Cancer.”

“June or July?”

“July.”

Her eyes light up, and she leans her forearms on the table. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. No wonder. You must feel so uncomfortable with us. We’re all fire signs.” She wags a finger between herself and Waverly. “Sagittarians.” She points at Aria. “Aries.”

Aria rolls her eyes. “Aria the Aries. I know, it’s tragic.”

“Do you know much about astrology?” asks Waverly.

I shake my head.

Heather smiles warmly and pats my hand. “Fear not, little water sign. We’ll adopt you.”

“You know, every single one of us originally started out in your job,” says Waverly.

“She means to say we all know it kind of sucks,” says Heather.

Waverly swats her arm. “Don’t be a bitch.”

“I meant that in a comforting, comradery way!”

My head whips back and forth with each volley of the conversation, but as quickly as the focus had shifted to me, Heather and Waverly turn to each other and launch into a different conversation too low for me to hear over the music. It happens so fast, I feel kind of dizzy.

Aria bumps her shoulder against mine. “Welcome to the shitshow.”

Chapter Forty-Five

LIAM

Christine and I don’t talk much. Especially not one-on-one. The few times shehascalled, it’s been about Casey.

And it’s never been good.

So seeing three missed calls and a voicemail from her today was nearly enough to give me a heart attack.

I pull into the driveway of the address she sent me—one of the little Victorian houses on Main Street that has been converted into a business. A divorce law office, by the looks of the sign.

Christine and my dad are standing near the front porch yelling at each other, and Casey is sitting on the ground behind his mom with tears streaming down his face.

I throw the truck’s door open and jump out.

“How could you not talk to me about it first?” Christine demands. “We don’t have anyone else?—”

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