Page 7 of Make The Cut

Her blue eyes widen as I glance over at her. Poppy is still resting her fingers on my shoulder, and I don’t want her to drop her hand or her smile. “Really? I’d love that!”

I don’t know why I offered. Maybe just to see her smile. Usually, I’d never make any offers to a girl, not wanting her to get the wrong idea about her place in my life. But Poppy and I are friends. And our friendship has been unconventional from the start, when we met because a cat clawed my pants off and relieved itself on her boss’s dry cleaning, therefore cementing my fear and hatred of cats forever. It also established our friendship for just as long.

“Of course.” Traffic starts moving again; honking, cursing, and vape smoke fills the air. I’m glad I didn’t put in the effort to roll my windows down. “We did date before.”

“Oh, then I’m never getting an introduction, then. She probably hates you.”

I heave a melodramatic sigh. “She knew what she was getting into when she got–”

“Into your bed?” Poppy shakes her head, dropping her hand from my shoulder. It shouldn’t feel like a rejection, but I feel the loss of her hand more keenly than I want to admit.

“I was going to saywhen she got into a relationship with me. But I’m glad you’re one step ahead of me, Red.” I shoot her a wink.

“You’re a scoundrel.” She huffs, struggling to put her hair up into a ponytail. “A real rake.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Oh, please. Don’t pretend you haven’t seenBridgerton.” A glossy black strand slips from her grasp and she blows it out of her face with an annoyed grimace. I fight the urge to tuck it behind her ear, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel instead.

“I can’t tell you. It’ll ruin my reputation with the ladies if they find out.”

“Oh, of course.” Poppy rolls her eyes, her hair finally up and out of her face. “I’m not going to ruin your reputation as a playboy. Not like I can still blog about your TV-watching habits, anyway.”

The bitterness in her voice seeps into the atmosphere of our relaxed, teasing drive, poisoning the air like a toxic chemical spill. I take one hand off the wheel and poke her in the arm. “I’m sensing some lingering resentment over your blog.”

“Mostly over my ex-boyfriend for telling people I was the one running it. I can’t believe I ever trusted him.” A strangled gasp forms in her throat, like she’s trying to suppress a sob.

I’ve seen Poppy Black upset. Determined. Happy. Furious, even.

But as I cast a sidelong glance at her, clapping a hand over her mouth like it will hold the emotions in, I realize I’ve never seen her sad. Vulnerable. Never seen her with her armour of fashionable, lighthearted, carefree bravado. Not like this.

Sensing that she doesn’t want to talk about it, I clear my throat and get ready to change the subject. “How’s Ryder doing?”

“Speaking of reasons I can’t trust men…” Surprise replaces the sharp bitterness in her tone. “I didn’t know you cared about my brother.”

“I don’t.” We’ve been at each other’s throats since he believes I stole his song years ago, back when his career was just starting. “But it’s polite to ask after your friend’s family.”

“I wish I could tell you, but I probably know less than you do.” She gives an artful shrug that says it all: indifference, resignation, a glimmer of sorrow. “We got into a huge fight and haven’t spoken since.”

Curiosity rears its long-dormant head in my chest. From what I’ve heard, Poppy and Ryder haven’t always been the closest of siblings, but I didn’t think their relationship was that bad.

“Why?” I stomp on the gas pedal as a red light approaches.

“He found out that I’m writing a gossip blog and that I may havekinda, sortaspilled his secrets there.” Her voice rises to a high-pitched squeak of sheepishness.

I remember the last post on her gossip blog that I read: something about Ryder’s new haircut, another line about my tattoos, and another about Alina Rostova’s return to DJing. I don’t know if there was anything so bad about her brother that would cause him to hate her.

Then I recall the last thing she let slip about Ryder Black: that he had some kind of financial scandal. Before that, it was the thing about him stealing his ex-girlfriend, Skye Holland’s, credit card to buy a guitar. Then, there was the news about him going to rehab—which turned out to be to visit his older brother who had a drug problem. “Do you regret it?”

“Yes and no.” She shifts in her seat and makes to roll the window down before remembering— “Naoya, why is it that you’re worth millions but you still drive a car witha hand crankfor rolling down the window?”

“It makes it harder for my passengers to escape.” The truth is, I just prefer the nondescript, low-key, beat-up vehicle that keeps the paparazzi from suspecting I’m inside. It’s a relief not to be recognized by fans or paparazzi when I already feel like my every move is always being scrutinized. “Well? Do you regret telling your brother’s secrets to the entire world?”

“It’s complicated.” Her shoulders sag along with the rest of her, as she sinks deeper into the passenger seat like she’s trying to burrow into the leather and never come out again. “I don’t—“

I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. I don’t know what regrets she’s fighting or what sadness is trying to drag her down, but I don’t want to let it win–not if I can do something about it.

Fame is paradoxically lonely. It pushes out all the people who’ll never understand your life and makes thousands of people think they know you better than anyone else. Right now, I think Poppy and I could both use each other’s friendship more than ever. So I retract my too-pointed question about her brother.

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