Page 159 of Gin and Lava

Sam flips me the bird, and at least I know one thing for sure. I don’t love Sam, and Sam doesn’t love me. We’re over.

Officially, one-hundred-percent over.

52

NAOMI

Shauri’s wedding is outdoors on a small patch of grass behind the beach-side resort. The water is sparkling and the decorations are a traditional brocade of plumeria and hibiscus flowers set amongst large green palm leaves.

Esme sits beside me on the bride’s side as we wait for the music to start and the bride to walk down the aisle. Esme is picturesque in a subtle off-the-shoulder grey number that’s surprisingly understated for a girl who presumably has all of Hollywood’s designers on speed dial. “I didn’t want to upstage the bride,” she said when I asked why she wasn’t wearing designer royalty to this event.

Classy. That’s what my best friend is. She’s always looking out for someone else.

And me? I’m actually wearing the same dress I wore to Ned and Olivia’s wedding—the navy blue one with the deep V down the font. (Yes, I dry cleaned it after my escapades with Mason). I know—gasp—I’m wearing a dresstwice! May the fashion gods roll over in their graves.

But I like this dress. I feel like myself in it. Or maybe Mason made me feel like myself in it, and I’m sentimental. I just know it was the right thing to wear today.

“Someone’s shooting daggers out of his eyes at you,” Esme says under her breath, nodding to Sam who’s standing up front with the other groomsmen. I told Esme everything when she flew in last night. And I do meaneverything: my conversations with Sam, my sex-capades with Mason, how Mason said the L-word and then left. If Esme’s the only real friend I have left, then I’m not holding back. Not anymore.

“Was Sam always such a baby about these kinds of things?” I ask, ignoring my ex’s desperate need to ruffle my feathers.

“I didn’t want to say anything when you guys were together, but …” Esme shrugs, confirming this has always been her impression of him. “Some guys are just used to winning.”

“Wow, I was blind!” I pick up my program and fan myself, peeking over it to see if Sam is still acting childish.

He is.

“Hey,” I nudge Esme, “maybe we should start making out and give Sam something to really be pissed about. He likes watching.”

Yes, I told Esme that part too. I held nothing back. And Esme’s the queen of being non-judgmental. Plus, she has her own sex-bomb of a boyfriend and plenty of her own stories that it’s nice to have one or two of my own.

“You realize that’s something Mason would say,” Esme pokes.

“It is,” I confirm. “But he’d also insist I film it and send it to him.”

“You miss him, don’t you?”

I look at my lavender-haired friend and shrug. She has her happily ever after and the gorgeous movie-star boyfriend who adores her. Me? I’m right back where I started: single at a wedding.

“Sure, I miss him,” I admit. “Mason and I got close. We became friends. He’s kind. He’s funny. He’d know exactly what to say about how Trifecta’s behaving, and I’d be making a scene because I’d be laughing so hard.”

“And that’s it?” Esme pries, nudging me in the ribs. “You’re justfriends?”

I know what she’s getting at. She’s been hinting at it ever since I spilled all the gory details over drinks last night. I’m not dumb. Yes, Mason and I get along really well. Yes, we have undeniable chemistry. But he said the L-word. That’s huge. That’s not, let’s get a drink and see where this goes.

“Look, I know what you’re trying to get me to say,” I deflect. “But I don’t want to hurt him more than I already have. Plus, I’m not even sure I know what love is anymore.” I gesture to my ex. “I thought I loved Sam, but obviously that was some twisted self-delusion.”

“But you like Mason more than a friend?” Esme presses.

“Mason said,I love you,” I whisper those words like it’s taboo. Which is ridiculous, I’m at a wedding, the epitome of love on display. “I’m not going to string Mason along again. That’s not fair. I refuse to bethat girlever again.” I give Esme a steely frown, trying to be convincing. I do mean it. I used Mason, and it’s only fair for me to back off and give him the space he asked for.

Esme narrows her eyes, unconvinced. “Well, if you don’t know what love is—” she begins, but then she leans over and kisses me—

On the mouth!

“What the heck!” I squawk, pulling back, only to realize Esme’s phone is up and is taking an incriminating selfie. I point at the image of us kissing. “What is that?!”

“Nothing,” Esme says, pulling her phone out of reach and turning her back to me. She pulls up a text message thread and—zoom!She’s sent it across the internet.

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