Page 128 of Relationship Goals

“Wait,” she says slowly. “What do you mean,right?”

“I meant, yes, that’s right.”

“Oh my god. You haven’t ever watched the movies?”

“I have not,” I admit, helping myself to a huge portion of the butter chicken and grabbing a piece or three of naan.

I nearly drop the plate at her melodramatic gasp.

“You actually haven’t seen them?!”

“It’s hard to take you seriously with that on,” I tell her, tearing into the naan while standing at her island.

“Good,” she says with a sniff. “Thank you for reminding me.” She pushes around her food, but she has yet to eat a bite.

“Reminding you of what?” I’m totally lost.

“Nothing,” the creature that once was Abigail says, waving a hand. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”

We’re quiet for a long moment, both of us apparently hungry past the point of politeness.

Despite her hideous costume, Abigail is still Abigail.

Amusement makes me smile as she struggles to eat without ruining her makeup.

“That is makeup, right?” I ask.

“No. I had cosmetic surgery to look like this forever,” she says, stretching her mouth in a disgusting grin. “Are you turned on yet?”

“Absolutely,” I say nonchalantly. “I look forward to the reality show Bravo will want to do on you.”

“You know Bravo, but you don’t know theLord of the Rings?”

I shift my weight, chasing rice around with my fork and the naan. “I like a littleHousewivesevery now and then.”

“Shut up.” Her eyes look even bigger than ever.

I glance sidelong at her, chewing the naan and butter chicken slowly.

Her expression changes suddenly, from faint hilarity (I think) to sadness, her shoulders drooping.

That’s not normal. That’s not my Abigail. Fear courses through me, worry for Abigail spiking my adrenaline.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she says.

“Bullshit,” I tell her. “You look like someone just killed your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog,” she says carefully, and when she glances up at me, that despair I thought I saw looks more like…anger.

I knew something was wrong with her. “Talk to me,” I say softly. “Whatever it is, I want to know. Let me help. Did the press say something? Is it your ex?”

“I’m fine. Why? Do you have something you need to tell me? Is this”—she gestures slowly between us—“projection I sense?”

My lips twist to the side in confusion. “No? I’m good.”

“Then me, too. I’m good, we’re good. We are so good.” Her voice is high and chipper and brittle.

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