Page 3 of Dear Hattie

Because apparently all it takes to break down my carefully constructed walls is a well-timed hit of sugar and caffeine. That, and a wallop of heartbreak first thing on a Monday morning. I open my mouth and blurt: “Simone is gone.”

Wesley nods slowly, one finger tapping on the tabletop. “Simone.”

“She worked on the Dear Hattie column with me—”

“I know who Simone is,” Wesley interrupts, and something about that makes my stomach twist.

He noticed her? Of course he did.Everyonewas in love with Simone, what with her Marilyn Monroe curls and trademark red lipstick and loud belly-laughs. Being invisible was a natural part of being Simone’s best friend. Who would see me next to her?

I’m dark blonde where she’s platinum; average height where she’s gazelle-tall. Neat and unnotable. The Walmart edition.

But at the idea of Wesley Tanaka liking her too, I tear off a huge bite of pretzel and scowl at the table as I chew. Suddenly I’m not hungry anymore—but I’ll still stuff my face to avoid this conversation.

“I thought she moved back to her hometown and got married,” Wesley says.

I grunt and chew harder, jaw aching. He kept tabs on her, huh? Bet he was disappointed that he didn’t get a shot with Simone. Bet he’d have loved to take my best friend out on whatever counts as a signature Wesley Tanaka date.

A secret rooftop gig, probably. Or an after-hours tour of a planetarium. Or a Sunday morning spent racing sports cars around an abandoned movie lot. I don’t know, okay? But I know it would be awesome. Something original or high adrenaline.

Can’t imagine the specifics. Can’tletmyself imagine them.

Tearing off another chunk of pretzel, I keep chewing, even though my mouth tastes sour. My belly is weighed down by rocks.

“You can still see her, though,” Wesley says, nonplussed. He’s still frowning at me—still trying to puzzle me out. “You can call and video chat. You can visit. It’s not like she’s fallen off the face of the earth.”

Is this supposed to be a pep talk? Because it sucks. Iknowwe can keep in touch online, damn it. Pretzel Media is a giant, digital-first company. We’re all acquainted with the wonders of technology.

But Simone is the closest thing I have to a family. Arealone, not the stilted group of strangers I share a surname with. I swallow hard, chasing my dry mouthful of dough with a swig of milky coffee, then place the cardboard cup down harder than necessary. Hot liquid sloshes and leaks from under the lid.

“I realize that all men are emotionally constipated—”

“Very enlightened,” Wesley says, dabbing my cup with a napkin.

“—but Imissher, okay? She’s my best friend, and the only person I have in the whole world. It’s not the same now that she’s screwed off to the middle of a cornfield.”

These are bitter, ugly thoughts. Thoughts I’d never share with Simone—who Iamhappy for, damn it—so why do they spill so easily for Wesley Tanaka? I’m usually so guarded around this man, and with good reason. We trade verbal jabs like boxers in a ring.

It’s that empty chair. My hollow chest, and the way my insides throbbed at the sight of Simone’s abandoned work pod. The way I’ve felt so insubstantial all weekend, fading into a ghost. Like a puff of wind could scatter me to atoms.

Wesley’s voice is soothing. “You’ll get over it, Small Fry.”

Heat flares up my neck, and my stomach does a funny little wobble. Why does he call me that? Can he see what it does to me? He’s making fun of me somehow, I know it.

My chair clatters against the sparkling white tiles as I lurch to my feet. Wesley blinks, taken by surprise.

Shit, what am I doing? This man is my rival. He lives to press my buttons. And I’m giving him all this ammunition?

“Thanks for the…” My hand waves at the leaking cup and crumpled napkin. The scattered crumbs. God, I’m the worst, but I can’t stay and bus my own table. Don’t trust my balance, and there’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears. “Good chat. Gotta go.”

“Harriet,” Wesley calls as I power walk away, his voice carrying across the open space. I pretend I don’t hear him, walking faster. “Harriet!”

So, yeah.

Mondays: one. Harriet: zero.

And now my arch nemesis knows I’m all gooey and vulnerable. Perfect.

Two

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