Page 12 of You're so Bad

I itch to text him a confirmation, nothing more or less, just to piss him off. But that’s probably what he’s angling for.

Sighing, I start to set my phone down when another message rolls in. This one’s from Leonard.

I’m guessing you have a hangover. Am I right? I like being right.

I think about ignoring him too, then write:

Maybe you should open up a phone psychic business.

No way. I was just telling Burke he should do that last night, because he said he predicted this whole thing with our fake relationship.

Sorry to Burke and his imaginary business, but I think phone psychics are bogus.

You don’t believe in the mystical beyond, donut?

Never call me that again.

He doesn’t need to know his nicknames amuse me. If he knew that, or that I had a dream about him screwing me over the front railing of my house, he’d see it as an open door. What he’d do with that open door, I don’t know, but I have a feeling it wouldn’t end well for me.

My phone buzzes, and I lift it with a little more interest than before. Sure enough, it’s him.

I’m going to find the right nickname. It just takes practice. But I’m more than willing to practice until I get to perfect, my peach.

Nope, that name’s worse than the rest.

But you do have a good peach.

Of course I do. I don’t need to be reminded of it.

Still, it doesn’t hurt. I ditch the phone, smiling, happy, and feeling better than I have in weeks, and take Bertie out for a walk he doesn’t need.

* * *

The next day,after spending the morning hauling boxes around at The Waiting Place, I head over to Glitterati, Delia’s sister’s bar. It’s the kind of place that takes its name seriously, because everything inside is bright and covered with glitter. The bar itself is made of purple resin filled with ribbons of glitter, and the drinks are served on trays made out of old records. The first time I came here, I knew I’d found a place that spoke to my heart. So do the Evans sisters. There’s Delia, with her red-gold hair and colorful outfits, and Mira, who has pitch black hair and light brown eyes. They come off as such opposites, but they both have a thing for color. This place is proof enough of that.

I knock on the door—locked, with a bedazzled Closed sign in the window—and Mira opens it.

“Well, you look like shit,” she says.

“Thank you.” I try not to lift my hand up to cover Zit Mountain, but my will power is a fragile thing these days. “I always try to look like I feel. It’s my form of radical honesty.”

She grins at me. “And telling it like it is, is mine. Come in, you have a drink waiting for you.”

“Music to my ears.”

Delia’s sitting at the bar already, wearing a bright yellow dress that would look hideous on ninety percent of the population—maybe ninety-five. Her face lights up when she sees me, and I already feel better than I did five minutes ago.

I may have only met the Evans sisters a couple of weeks ago, but it always does my soul good to see them. There’s something so genuine and warm about them, and even though they’re very different, they both are the kind of people who listen because they want to hear—not because they’re waiting for their chance to speak. It has only made me realize how hollow my friendship with Bianca had become toward the end. And, also, how isolating it had been.

Bee wasn’t my only female friend, but she has a habit of driving away people she doesn’t like. Or people who threaten her. Or people who take up the time of the friends whose focus she wants for herself. I didn’t even realize how bad it had gotten until she’d moved in on Colter, and I was left alone.

Rafe’s my oldest friend, but he’s still a dude. Sometimes you need female companionship and nothing else will do.

“I was worried you weren’t going to come,” Delia tells me, pushing a drink toward me. It’s blue with edible glitter floating in it.

“That’s a My Fake Boyfriend is Loki,” Mira says, joining us. “I made each of us a signature drink.”

“You gonna trademark that one?”

---