Harper seemed downright perfect for me, perfect for all roads paved forward.
Be it the case, why the fuck did I have a gaping hole in my chest, feeling as though my head were underwater, immersed in a sinkhole of unfathomable doubt?
Damn. Confessions.
Rolling into Pancake Shack’s parking lot, I pumped my fist, relieved there wasn’t the usual line of UCLA students waiting outside. The growls and rumbles coming from my gut told me, loud and clear, my stomach wasn’t letting me off the hook for skipping breakfast.
Known for its signature strawberry-banana pancakes, the trendy mom-and-pop-style café was where students gathered before, after, in between, orduringclasses, catering to those hybrids who, like Macy, juggled traditional and online courses. I’d never been disciplined enough for online studies, regardless of the fact my major, Physical Education, didn’t offer such an option. Macy, on the other hand, excelled at distant learning, and since eighty percent of her classes were taken online, she loved having control over her time.
After squeezing in between a parked motorcycle to the left and a Honda to the right, I shifted my car into park.
AJ unfastened the seatbelt, still engrossed in his phone as his fingers interlocked the handle to open the door, but he paused as soon as he heard me say, “Spit out what you have against Harper.” It may have been one of those questions one would later regret tossing out; nonetheless, my brain craved the response much like a pregnant woman does pickle-flavored ice cream.
Turning to face me, AJ’s unconcealed perusal leveled onto mine. “She’s not Macy.”
5
Hours.
Not just two or three.
Fiveexcruciating hours had gone by with no reply from Lucas. Dickhead.
Avoidance happened to be his coat of armor, a personal protection shield he brandished like Captain Freaking America.
Mr. Stone’s flagrant brush-off only signified he’d readeverything, the realization tightening my chest till normal breathing seemed too far-fetched.
Be that as it may, I surmised damage control would become this chick’s obsession, as soon as a plausible course of action was laid out with guidance from besties who specialized in clusterfuck management being a definite must.
Highly skilled in slyness, anyone would have agreed Chloe and Sage could teach a Masterclass on scheming. Convinced they’d know what to do, I headed over to their place, even though chugging cocktails with them was kind of what planted me face-first in this sticky mess to begin with.
“Want me to order us some pizza?” Chloe poured white wine into three coffee mugs lined up on the counter. “Pizza cures all.”
“Uh, I beg to differ,” Sage announced, helping herself to one of the mugs, her initial sip accompanied by a slurp. “Hot sex is what cures all.”
“Okay, fine.” Chloe reached across the counter, passing me one of the Moscato-filled mugs, pink-stained lips kicked up into a barefaced smirk. She’d been known to dish an occasional evil eye, and the glare she had fixed on Sage could cut glass on all the high rises in Dubai. “Want me to order us somehotsexthen?”
“Would ya, hon?” Sage arched a brow, the look of sarcasm slapped on her face like a pore-cleansing facial mask. “I’ll take mine meaty with extra sauce.”
Kid you not, watching the two of them bounce witty comebacks back and forth was like being up close and center at a comedic stage show—A Night at the Improv with Sage and Chloe.
Chloe wrote down our picky order—one-third pineapple with light sauce, another third sausage and extra cheese, and the last portion jalapeño and chicken. When she placed the pencil onto the counter, we all watched as it rolled off and onto the floor.
Pooch, their Siamese cat, trotted in and snagged the pencil into his mouth, then ran off with it like a bat out of hell.
“Cat thinks he’s a freaking dog,” Sage said. “Takes off with stuff, charges out the cat door flap Chloe installed, then buries the stolen goods deep inside the courtyard flower bed.” She gulped a swig of wine. “Swear to God he ran off with my vibrator the other day. Poor thing is probably six feet under, missing my vajayjay.”
I shrugged. “Maybe you shouldn’t have named your cat Pooch.”
When the pizza arrived, the three of us settled on their living room floor, stuffing our faces, sipping wine, and of course, devising.
“I say you prance around your house naked from now on,” Chloe babbled, pausing to snag a sip of wine. “Breakfast dolled up in your birthday suit. Netflix on the couch, garment free. Household chores with nothing but your glorious ass and tits on display. I mean, sooner or later, Lucas—along with his cock—will have no choice but to kick Harper to the curb and concede to your proclaimed love for him.”
Sage doused her slice of pizza in ranch dressing, noggin bobbing as though what she’d just heard made sense. “That might actually work. Remember that scene inThe Breakupwhen Jennifer Anniston’s character strutted around their apartment bare and newly waxed? It was pleasurable torture for Vince Vaughn’s character.” She bit into the ranch-coated slice. “I’ve seen you naked, Macy. Believe me, Lucas will bust a nut once he—”
“Okay,” I interjected, hands up. “You both need to shut up forever.” I cracked up, done with their zany, albeit somewhat tempting, suggestion. “I willnotprance around my house naked…yet.”
Heads tossed back, we busted our guts, the swigs of sweet wine consumed making us noticeably giddy. Their company proved to be sustenance for my broken soul to thrive on, life support that kept my heart pumping when all I wanted to do was curl up in bed with a box of dark chocolates and the emotionally gritty Kennedy Fox novel on my read-and-review list.
