Page 38 of Shattered Promise

Margot: What? We’re all friends here. Some of us are even dating brothers. The jokes write themselves.

Eloise: Moving on. @abby chime in!

Cora: Please tell me you’ve started it at least @abby

Margot: She’s probably not gonna answer because she’s busy with chapter 33. I’m just sayin’

I snort, nearly choking on a mouthful of lemonade. I can practically hear Margot’s cackle echoing through the screen, and Cora’s faux-mortified gasp. Even in a group chat, their personalities are so big they threaten to spill out and fill the entire porch with noise and color. I can picture the way Cora’s lips would twitch, how she’d try not to smile at the innuendo, and how Eloise would roll her eyes but not mean it.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, debating if I should reply and how much to give them. They’re relentless in the best way, and I miss genuine friendship so much it hurts.

I never had a lot of amazing friends growing up, just a small handful of decent ones. I used to think that being the youngest in a family of six meant I’d have best friends for life. But that was before I understood that my older sister already had a best friend, our cousin Evangeline. When we were kids, those two were thick as thieves, and my brothers had each other, which left me to myself. I got used to it soon enough.

Or at least that’s what I told myself.

I don’t know how it started or where, but over the years, I began craving the type of female friendships that you read about. The inseparable women in a romcom TV show where it takes you two seasons to understand that the star relationship of the entire series is the friendship between women.

My thumbs start moving before I even think about what I’m going to say.

Me: So, I’m kind of behind. Sorry about that! You guys can meet without me!

Immediately, the replies pile in.

Margot: Dude, no.

Eloise: Absolutely not.

Francesca: We’ll wait until you finish!

Guilt flutters like a moth in my chest.

Me: No, you really don’t have to do that. I don’t know when I’m going to finish the book, and I don’t want to hold you guys up!

Cora: Just come hang out with us anyway @abby. We’ll try to keep it spoiler-free.

Eloise: Yeah, we can definitely do that. It’s only the book like 20% of the time

Francesca: The rest of the time we talk about food

Eloise: And gossip about the guys

Cora: Just come and hang out then, Abby. We miss you!

Tears prick unexpectedly at the corners of my eyes. I blink hard and swallow it all down, but the ache stays right where it is, tucked into the pocket behind my sternum.

I switch to my camera app and toggle it to front-facing. The image stares back at me: tired eyes, wild hair, and a bruise stillblooming across my cheekbone like a half-faded watercolor. It’s yellow at the edges now, the darkest part softening to the color of old plum.

I close the app and open my browser instead, searchinghow long does a black eye last.

I scroll until I find a chart, some dermatology blog with a graphic of healing stages. Day one to fourteen, each tone mapped out like paint swatches: violet, indigo, charcoal, green, gold.

My fingers hover over the screen as I study the image, comparing it to the side of my face in the picture I snapped. Five days, maybe six, until I look normal again. Or normal enough to pass after an artfully applied makeup tutorial.

I open back up the group chat.

Me: I’ll be home next weekend

Cora: YAY! Don’t worry about reading. We know how busy you are!

---