Page 80 of Muddy Messy Love

Jen slides on her black cat-eye sunglasses. “Done.”

The first twelve stores yield us a garbage bag full of clothes destined for the washing machine, a pop-art painting, two funky vases, and an ab roller. Yes, an ab roller. No thrift shop is complete without one. It was Jen’s buy—not mine. And the grand total spent? A whopping thirty-six dollars. Pauper, meet queen.

“How’s uni?” I ask once we climb back into Betsy with our bakery lunch.

“Good,” she says, adjusting her meat pie higher in its crumpled paper bag. “I’m pretty sure I meet the criteria for half the mental disorders in theDSM, but apparently it’s normal for psychology students to fear that.”

I laugh. “Don’t worry. You’re the best kind of nuts.”

Jen takes a bite, hums her appreciation, then swallows. “I tried to find a disorder my dad fits but couldn’t, weirdly enough. I thought having the delusion your adult daughter is still a child who needs your control would fit something for sure.”

“He hasn’t mellowed out any, then?”

She shakes her head. “He thinks Liam’s gay. That’s the only reason I’m allowed near him.”

I stifle a laugh before my mouthful of Cornish pastie can escape. “Sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.”

But Jen cracks a smile. “Oh, it’s as funny as you imagine. Liam puts on quite the show for Dad. He’s very convincing.”

I grin. “What about your mum?”

“Mum’s no dummy. She knows what’s going on but can also keep a secret, thank God.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, catching Jen’s gaze so she knows I mean it. Jokes aside, her dad’s overprotectiveness has plagued her since puberty. My mum didn’t care enough. Her dad cares too much. Both extremes suck. “I know it’s hard for you.”

Jen wipes away flakes of pastry from her lips. “I just thought it would get better when I turned eighteen. But hell, was I wrong.”

Shoving the rest of the pie in her mouth, Jen screws up her empty bag. I take it from her grasp and dump it in the footwell with mine, then retrieve the hot cinnamon doughnut balls that have scented the whole car. The oily paper bag rustles as I wave them under Jen’s nose. “Want one?”

She holds up a finger, making a show of swallowing that last bite. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

The warm crunchy dough outer gives way to fluffy goodness, and my eyes roll back in my head. I lick the crystals of cinnamon sugar from my lips and moan. “These should be illegal.”

“Better than sex,” Jen agrees.

I ponder the comparison. “Nah. Close though.”

She chokes down a mouthful. “Really? Well then, do tell.”

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” I say, repeating the same words I told Hannah, but Jen scoffs.

“Cut the crap. You tell me everything, and I meaneverything.” She drags out the last word while jiggling her brows.

Cringing, I recall the intimate conversations we’ve had about Slade. But the thought of blabbing sordid details about Cole sits like a dumbbell in my chest. It would be a betrayal. To him. To us. I shake my head, pretend to zip my lips shut, then throw away the imaginary key.

Jen stares at me, and her heart-shaped face slackens. “Oh my God.”

I frown at her. “What?”

“Oh. My. God,” she repeats.

“Oh my God, what?” I wriggle in my vinyl seat, growing increasingly uncomfortable. What is she on about?

She covers my hand with hers and gives me gleeful doe eyes. “You love him.”

I scoff. “I’ve known him for six weeks, and we’ve only been together for three. That’s not even possible.” But my stomach flips, my ears burn, and Jen cackles.

“Oh, babe. You’re screwed.” She grins, but I deflate.

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