Page 10 of Friends Don't Kiss

She crosses her arms. “No one’s.”

I lift my foot from the gas pedal and motion to the screen. “What was that?”

Kiara never hides anything from me. She might not share everything about her family, but that’s the past. When it comes to her present, she tells me everything—when she’s late on rent, when she lands a new contract, a catering gig, or the competitions she enters, win or lose.

She’s even introduced me to a couple of her dates, not that I particularly cared for it. But she did it, she said, to “get my take on them”. Point is, she doesn’t hide stuff from me.

“Kiara, what the fuck?” I say when she doesn’t answer.

She looks at me, her eyebrows shooting to her hairline. “Oh no. It’s like,literally, no one. I told my mom I’d bring a boyfriend, and she’s asking for his name.”

“Why’d you tell her that?”

“Because…” She blinks a little too fast. I’ve never seen her like that.

“Because what?” I focus my gaze back on the road and try to loosen my grip on the wheel.

“It’s stupid.”

“Even better.”

“She and my sister… God it soundsso stupidwhen I say it out loud!” She actually snorts, making me feel better.

“You haven’t said anything yet. I can’t wait.”

She waves across the cab and raises her voice. “They’re always giving me shit because I can’t keep a man! Why the hell do they care?”

Yeah, why? “And so you…?”

“And so I said I’d bring my boyfriend. So now they want a name.”

“Imagine that.” Despite my best effort, a smile spreads on my face and I struggle to keep my laughter in. “How you getting out of this?”

She giggles. “I said there was a ten percent chance he’d be stuck at work.”

“That doesn’t solve your problem. You need to come up with a name. They’re gonna grill you.”

“I know.”

“So—what’s his name? And what does he do for a living, that he’s “stuck at work” on a Saturday night?”

She shuts her eyes. “I’ll just tell ’em I dumped him.”

“That’ll take care of it. Tell ’em you don’t date guys who can’t make time for your grandmother’s birthday.”

“Un-huh.” She fidgets with her stockings, poking her thin fingers in the holes between the threads.

“Careful,” I say, dragging my gaze away from her legs and back to the road.Fuck. Get a grip, man. She’s your friend.

“What?”

“You’re gonna break ’em… or whatever that’s called.”

I feel her turn toward me, but resist the urge to look. “You concerned about a run in my stockings, Colt?”

I don’t like to see you nervous. Or miserable.“I’m not concerned, I’m… never mind.”I hate that you feel like you have to wear something that makes you uncomfortable just to please your family.

She laughs, the sound cascading through me, warm and effortless. “What do you think?”

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