Page 4 of Entangled

Her beaming face makes the sacrifice worth it. If it keeps her smiling today, I’ll let every boy at school bore me with their Star Wars talk.

“And I promise to always put you in uncomfortable positions that we can laugh about twenty years from now because that’s what best friends do.”

Laughing, we enter the classroom.

CHAPTER2

WILLOW

Music playsfrom Chloe’s speakers while she applies her blood-red lipstick in the mirror. I’m like a newborn lamb on ice as I step out of the adjoining bathroom in a pair of six-inch, black heels and a gold dress, which she insisted I try on. “I feel stupid.”

She smacks her lips, fluffing her hair, then straightens up. Her excited squeal makes me wince. “You look amazing! Wow, look at your tits in that dress.”

Swaying on my feet, I tug down on the fabric around my thighs. Well, I try to, but it barely covers my ass. “I look ridiculous.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ll have every man drooling over you tonight.”

Just then, there’s a knock on the door, and Dylan enters the room. When he spots me, he does a double take. “Holy shit!”

“Right?” Chloe’s tinkling laughter drifts on the heavy bass like a crowd-surfing rockstar. “Doesn’t she look amazing?”

“Who knew you hid all that beneath your band T-shirts, Willow?”

I flip him off.

“Luca will be here soon. He’s running five minutes late.”

Walking over to the door, I throw a look at Chloe, who waves me off.

“Don’t write him off just yet.”

“I’m grabbing a beer. Do you guys want one?”

“Sure,” Chloe replies, glancing at Dylan. “Do you want one?”

“Yeah, go on then. I’ll have one.”

I walk downstairs to the kitchen. Black, marble tiles meet dark-gray cupboards and a feature wall of exposed brick. The kitchen island in the middle always has a bowl of fruit filled with grapes and fresh red apples.

Opening the fridge, I find what I’m looking for. I remove three bottles of beer and shut the fridge.

“I really shouldn’t turn a blind eye,” Mr. Reid says, entering the kitchen.

Turning, I lean back against the fridge. “Probably not.”

Mr. Reid looks rough today, with dark circles beneath his eyes, his tie hanging loose, and his buttons undone. It’s as if he remains strong all year, but on this date—this one single day—he lets himself fall apart.

“Hand me one, please.”

I do, watching him search a kitchen drawer for an opener. He pops the lid and brings the bottle to his lips, downing half of it in one go.

Swallowing thickly, I chew on my lip, unsure what to say. “I’m sorry.”

It feels inadequate. Something lame you say to fill the silence, not to comfort or to soothe someone else but to make yourself less uncomfortable in the presence of palpable grief.

His tired eyes meet mine, and for a long moment, he simply looks at me, pinning me to the fridge door with his pain. “Look after my daughter tonight. Take her mind off all this and ensure she has a good time.”

“I will,” I promise.

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