Page 88 of Switching Graves

“Can we table this argument? At least for tonight?” I ask when she whips her door open. My stomach flutters with hopefulbutterflies that fall flat when she kicks her hip out, raising a single brow.

“Are you done being petty?” she asks, pursing her lips the same way her mother does.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I blow out a frustrated sigh. “Come on, Poppy. I need to talk to my best friend for a minute. No matter what happens between us, that’s what we’ll always be. Until the world burns, remember?”

I wait as she openly considers me, tapping her fingers against the side of her leg. “Fine, but only because I need my best friend too.”

The door swings open further and she waves me inside.

Falling onto her bed, I lean back on my hands and shake my head. “What a shitshow that was, huh?”

“Everything with them is a shitshow, so I’m not surprised,” she says dismissively, then takes a seat on her vanity stool across the room. “Mom was nosier than usual.”

My voice softens. “They’ve just missed you, Poppy.”

“Well, I haven’t missed this place at all.”

I’d love to ask her what her problem is and point out how lucky she is to have parents who care so much. Reading Finley’s journals has triggered all my old rage over losing my own parents, and it’s harder to stamp down those feelings when she acts this way. Especially when I’ve been on the receiving end of their adoration toward her, and it hasn’t been nearly as terrible as she tries to claim.

Embarrassing, sure. But not terrible.

Instead of screaming at her the way every cell in my body wants to do, I inhale a deep breath, filling my lungs until they ache.

“I hooked up with Doctor Weirdo.” The words tumble from my mouth in a rush.

Poppy’s eyes go wide, her lips slackening from the tight, stubborn line they were stuck in. “You . . . what?”

“It just kind of happened. And then, it . . . it kept happening,” I say with a wince.

“For how long? Why haven’t you told me this?”

“You weren’t answering your phone, and there was always something else to talk about when you did.”

She scowls. “Oh, like that dead kid’s journals? I would have much preferred this news.”

Something about that rubs me the wrong way. In fact, everything about her lately has been rubbing me the wrong way. It seems the only way we can get through a conversation anymore is if I swallow down my true thoughts.

“What about you? I’ve hardly heard about Costa Rica.” My tone is accusatory, my voice rising on the last word.

This is just a phase. It’s a small rough patch in a long, devoted friendship.

I have to remember that.

“Much less eventful than Ravenshurst, it seems,” she scoffs. “What could have possessed you to hook up with a man who you thought was a serial killer?”

I hold my finger up. “Well, about that . . . ”

Poppy sucks in a breath. “Sonny!” she practically shrieks. “You did not.”

“There are some rumblings about him being dangerous, but I truly think he’s misunderstood,” I defend in a rush.

Poppy shakes her head, wide eyes staring at me like she’s ready to commit me to a psych ward for my own safety. “Well, you know you have to tell me all about it now.”

I giggle, sticking my tongue out and kicking my feet in the air before launching into all the details I’ve been dying to share. The tension between us slowly fades away as we settle back into our usual banter.

“It looks like you channeled me a littletoo well,” she jokes with a cringe face when I’m finished with my word vomit.

I lean back against her headboard and cross one leg over the other. “Tell me about Costa Rica. For real, this time. How do you like it?”

---