Page 8 of We Can't Be Friends

I shake my head no, woefully.

“What aren’t you telling me, Chlo?”

That my relationship is that of a flaming garbage can.

That Seth and I have been on and off again enough times we’d need both our hands to keep count.

That the whole reason I’m even in this relationship is because I hate being alone.

That I’m terrified of someone telling me goodbye, so I pick boys I know that I can kick to the curb.

“Nothing.”

3

CALLUM

Fresh out of the shower after a run with Liam, I’m putting my clothes away from earlier, listening to Liam talk about the new book he’s reading and annotating for Emerson.

He’s been buying books to give her for three years. He wouldn’t shut up during our run, asking if I think George should ship them to him.

“Speak of the bloody devil, it’s George. Video chat,” Liam calls out.

I walk over, lying on my stomach next to Liam on my bed. Our feet dangling off the edge of the king-sized mattress. If anyone were to walk in, they’d think we were two teenage girls braiding each other’s hair.

Funnily enough, the three of us used to do that. Well, this. Lying in bed or on the floor during uni. Talking for hours, and every so often, when our hair was grown out, George would braid it.

We always ragged on him about being too good at it. He’d simply smile. All cheeky and boyish.

Then, one weekend, Beatrix Archer (his now wife) was visiting. Beatrix was on the couch while George was in the kitchen, fixing her a glass of red wine. When he returned to the sofa, he shifted his body behind hers, knees on either side of her body as she sat between them. Big brown eyes and dark lashes fluttering up at him, she gave him a pouty face and asked, “Braid it, please.”

He was whipped—he’s always been wrapped around her finger—and braided her hair without hesitation. From the opposite couch, my eyes watched as he meticulously weaved strands of herlong brown hair. Rubbing his fingers to massage the hair after he finished and tied it off.

I told Liam about my discovery when he got home from physical therapy that night.

I’ve always appreciated a girl’s hair braided down her back, pulling on it to tilt her head up to me in a kiss or—I stop my train of thought when an image of Chloe pops in my head.

Liam swipes right on the call.

“Oi! George! We were talking about you.”

“Of course you bollocks were. What about me?” He flicks his brows.

“Trying to figure out if we can get you out here for a short holiday.”

George runs a hand down his face. “Let me talk to the queen, and we can see what we can come up with.” He pauses. “Cally, heard you had a little run-in with a certain someone’s best friend.”

I shoulder bump Liam. “Wasn’t me.”

“States,”—Liam’s nickname for Emerson—“Told Beatrix.” Which means my sister also knows. Great. Not that it means anything, but I know I won’t be able to live it down. “Was she fit?”

Liam’s arching a brow at me through the camera. George mirrors him and chuckles.

Anyone with eyes would know Chloe Henry is fit. “Yeah.”

“Scale zero to Beatrix.”

“I’m not comparing her to your wife.”

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