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She clapped. “Good! I knew you would say yes.”
As I rifled through the papers, I pulled out an off-white piece of cardstock, realizing a moment later it was a wedding invitation with Sarah and Owen’s names on it in a swoopy, cursive font. My eyes lingered on Owen’s name, and my mind flashed to the night he first kissed me outside of the Mexican restaurant at the staff Christmas party almost two years ago. The only reason he’d fallen into my arms in the first place was because Sarah had rejected him that night.
Look at them now, I thought. They were so disgustingly perfect for each other, it was impossible to feel bitter about being pushed aside so he could finally be with the woman he truly desired.
“Oh yeah,” Sarah said, seeing the invitation in my hand. “I brought that in here for you. Your invitation was sent to your old address, because I printed the label before you guys broke up... and, well, I wasn’t sure if Heath would have shared that with you.”
“He didn’t,” I said, shaking my head. Of course he hadn’t told me about it. If he hadn’t been dating me at the time, they wouldn’t have invited him at all. And though we were split up now, I could almost guarantee he would still go—meaning not one, but two, of my ex-boyfriends would be in attendance.
And one of them was the groom.
I could feel Sarah’s eyes on me as I put the invitation down on the table. I heard the inhale, saw the way she shifted in her seat—and I knew the words that were about to come out of her mouth before she even uttered them. “I know I’ve said this before—”
“Don’t,” I said with a grin, shaking my head. “You’re already said it twice.”
“But I’m just so—”
“I know.”
“And Owen’s really—"
“Sorry,” I finished for her. “I know. He told me, too. I promise my Owen-hating era only lasted, like, two weeks.” This was mostly true—the sight of Owen and Sarah together stopped crushing my heart after about two months, but who’s counting? “Let me be in my Heath-hating era now.”
“I’m—shit, I almost said ‘I’m sorry’ again.”
“I don’t care if you’re the principal, I’ll kick you out of this room if you apologize to me one more time.” I pointed at the door.
Sarah laughed, running her fingers through her dark hair. “Okay. I won’t. Anyway, I wish I could uninvite Heath, but I sort of made it an open invitation to all the staff.” She winced at me.
“Can I still bring another plus-one?” There was no way I could show up to this event alone. My mind shifted to Mason. Of course we’d both indicated our plans for this Friday night were just a one-time thing, but come November, maybe he’d be up for round two? I couldn’t fight the grin spreading across my face.
And Sarah noticed. She raised both eyebrows and asked, “Why, do you have someone in mind?”
“No,” I lied, but my smile grew even wider when I thought about some of the nasty things Mason had been expressing he desired to do to me. I could feel my cheeks starting to get hot, so I quickly attempted to change the subject. “I would just hate to show up to a wedding alone.”
“Well, of course you can still bring a plus-one,” she said, scooting her chair back. Just before she stood up, she elbowed me. “You can bring whoever’s got you blushing like that, girl.”
As Sarah turned to walk away, I laughed and hid my face with my hands. God. This man was turning me into a giggling schoolgirl, and I hadn’t even met him yet.
chapter four
mason
Kendall: I’m not sure you can handle all this ass.
“Dad, have you seen my unicorn shoes?”
I blinked, looking up from my phone, trying to remember the last place in which I’d seen Finley’s favorite pair of shoes. If she’d leave them in the basket by the bottom of the stairs like I constantly reminded her, this wouldn’t be an issue. “Check under your bed,” I mumbled, looking back at my phone. I glanced at the time—we had about ten minutes before we’d need to head out the door for meet-the-teacher night.
Mason: I’m up for the challenge.
“I already looked there,” Finley whined, dramatically throwing herself down on the couch beside me. She rolled off the front of it, sliding onto the floor—a movement that ruined the tight ponytail I’d just pulled her hair into. Before I could open my mouth to tell her to get up off the floor, she turned to an imaginary camera and said, “Tune in next time for the unicorn shoe reveal, I guess.”
I swallowed. For the past several weeks, Finley had been addressing a pretend camera as though she had a million YouTube subscribers watching her at all times. At first it was weird, and then it became annoying. We’d be in the middle of a meal at a restaurant with my parents and she’d say, “Leave a comment down below if you think I should put hot sauce on my mac and cheese!”
My parents were concerned, trying to convince me Finley had lost all sense of reality. Like it was a coping mechanism for the trauma she’d been through. And maybe it was? But by now, I’d accepted it, welcoming her invisible followers into our daily lives. Hosting an imaginary YouTube channel replaced her incessant begging to start a real one, so I decided to embrace it—sometimes participating in the shenanigans myself. “No, let’s do the unicorn shoe reveal right now,” I said, standing up from the couch. “Because if we don’t find your shoes, you’re not going to get to meet your teacher tonight.”
Upon hearing this, she sprang into action. Nothing excited Finley more than starting kindergarten—we even had a paper chain countdown to mark the occasion. Finley’s backpack was already packed with all of her school supplies and hanging in the foyer upstairs. The walk-in closet in our basement was full of all of Finley’s new back-to-school clothes—she had a new outfit for the entire first month, which was the result of letting my mom take her to the mall. I should’ve known she’d spoil her.
