Page 84 of The Good Girl

I take in her sweat slicked skin encased in tight running shorts and sports bra and shake my head. I love her more than anything, but we couldn’t be more different if we tried.

If just wearing underwear isn’t an option, Amity likes walking around in skin tight sports gear. I like cute skirts and graphic T-Shirts, but only because PJ’s are frowned upon.

She eats clean foods, and I like foods that involve grease, cheese, and lots of refined carbs.

She’s also one of those people who exercises a lot—on purpose, for fun. I asked the minister at our church to perform an exorcism on her once because surely she had to be possessed. Nobody willingly gets up before seven a.m. and works out—for fun—except, of course, Amity. I don’t hold her disability against her, though. And she doesn’t hold the fact that I only run when cake is involved against me.

“I’ll keep her out of trouble?” She mocks.

“Hush now. I’m exhausted just looking at you.”

She grins. “Then my work here is done. You know, you could join me. You never know, you might enjoy it.”

We look at each other for a beat before we dissolve into fits of laughter.

“Oh god, that was a good one.”

“How goes the writing? Find any inspiration while you were gone?”

I throw myself in the chair and bang my head on the table, groaning as my sore body protests against the sudden movement.

“That good?” She chuckles as she takes a seat.

I sigh dramatically, wondering what on earth possessed me to become an author, when I could have just as easily run off and joined a circus or become a stripper. Then I remember I can’t lift my leg behind my head because I’m allergic to exercise. Ah, a full-circle moment.

“These characters won’t listen to me.”

“You wrote these characters. Make them listen to you.”

“That’s not how this works, Amity. They talk all over me, and sometimes, if I’m fortunate, they’ll clue me in on what’s happening.”

“You know, in any other walk of life, if someone said they heard voices and then went on to argue with them, they’d end up heavily medicated.”

“Why do you think I became an author? I can’t eat doughnuts if I’m wearing a straitjacket after all.”

She chuckles before tossing her now empty bottle into the recycling.

“Alright, enough chit-chat, spill.”

I sigh, knowing she was never going to let me stall for long. “I’m not sure what I can and can’t say yet.”

She frowns at me for a moment before something clicks, and she rolls her eyes. “Not the shit with the other club. I’m talking about your real identity coming out and the stud in the picture. I follow you on Instagram as Nevaeh and as Celeste, remember? You’ve been popping up all over the place.”

I tell her how I met Ambros, the picture, and everything that’s happened since it blew up on Instagram.

When I’m finished, she leans over and pinches me.

“Owww. What was that for?” I ask, rubbing my arm.

“Not telling me sooner!”

“I was embarrassed. And you’d just fallen over a cliff; it didn’t seem important.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll let it go…this time. Has your dad called you yet?”

“No, but it’s only a matter of time. He might not hear about it for a few days, but he will.”

“Well, maybe now’s the perfect time to tell him you’re not going home.”

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