Page 137 of We Can't Be Friends

“No red?”

Her head pops out of the room. “The boys will be here soon. We can ask them to pick up a bottle.”

“My phone died, can you text Liam?” I close the fridge, the chilled bottle in my hand. “Can they get food too? I’m starving.”

Emerson returns to the room, mumbling on the phone with Liam.

I set the bottle on the counter, twisting off the cap. Taking a swig of the rose, I wipe the back of my hand on the droplets clinging to the corner of my mouth, letting the ones in my eyes stay.

I return to Emerson’s bedroom, she’s lying next to my spot. She’s a left side of the bed sleeper, I’m a right.

“I can’t believe you are moving.”

Passing the wine between us, she takes a drink, her feet kicked back behind her. “Me either.” Another drink. “To another country. For a boy.”

“Not just any boy.” I squeeze her shoulder and she instinctively leans into me. “The boy.”

“The boy, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you finally like Liam?”

“As long as you’re happy and love him, then yes.”

She laughs, drops of wine fly out of her mouth. “What about Brandon then?”

“He goes on the list with Seth. Boys we should never have let each other date.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

***

Emerson and I moved from her bedroom to the living room, forgoing the packing. That’s tomorrow Emerson’s problem.

We pushed all the furniture that’s remaining to the side. The couch is up against the cream-colored wall that used to be filled with photos Emerson took. Her bookshelf is shoved next to it in the corner, empty—she already had Liam cart suitcases of books to London. The coffee table is pushed up against the couch, our empty wine bottle on its side. Her area rug is gone, leaving original dark hard wood that our socks keep slipping on while dancing.

Knock, knock, knock.

“That’s Liam.” Emerson smiles, rushing to the door, doing the splits mid scurry.

She opens the door. Callum follows Liam in. Bottles of wine in his hands.

“Hey, Daisy,” he quietly says to me.

“Hey, Pretty Boy,” I return the sentiment.

“What’s this?” Emerson asks, unpiling the boxes of pizza. In her hands is a smaller box, the branding different from the other boxes.

“Where we got pizza from didn’t have any Chloe could have. Cal stopped by another restaurant,” Liam shares.

All eyes swivel from me to Cal.

I nibble on my bottom lip, swallowing down the butterflies back to my stomach. Any sort of retort is lost on me. Nothing quick wit seems appropriate right now.

My ice is melting and Cal is holding the torch that’s causing it.

“Thank you,” slips from my lips all syrupy with feelings I don’t want anyone seeing, not till I can tell him how I feel. After the lingerie debacle, we haven’t had a minute to talk.

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