“No, stay,” Ariel says. “You two are my bridesmaids. I want your input.”
Emily exhales, rubbing her forehead. “Of course, love. We’re here for you.”
I nod as well. Ariel deserves her day in the sun.
I want her to have it.
But something isn’t right.
It’s pecking at the back of my neck like a hungry mosquito—that nagging feeling so familiar. The same feeling I had when Leroy didn’t come home the night of the bachelor party.
And I can’t help but wonder…
What if some things were meant to stay buried?
EPISODE 202
HERE’S TO THE LADIES WHO LUNCH
Heather
The tropical lunch buffet is great. Vibrant colors, next-level presentation—so gorgeous I almost don’t want to touch it. Juicy sliced mango sits next to pineapple so fresh it probably just fell off the tree. And don’t even get me started on the shrimp skewers—grilled to perfection, all glazed in some kind of citrusy magic that tastes like a vacation.
Cold coconut rice with lime zest and chili flakes sprinkled on top. And the salads are so chic. Papaya slaw, watermelon with mint, and this cucumber thing with ginger dressing that’s basically spa water you can eat. The whole thing smells like spice, sunshine, and pure happiness.
Honestly, I’m obsessed with the food here. Almost as much as I’m obsessed with Sebastian Tate, though he hasn’t looked my way in a while.
Keeping secrets hasn’t affected my appetite at all. If anything, the lying burns calories. I pile my plate high with coconut rice, a few slices of pineapple, and two shrimp skewers.A Mai Tai in one hand, secrets in the other. Balance, babe.
June, who’s still wearing her damned towel—I swear to God the girl is a nudist—sits across from me. The woman can lick pussy like a boss, but there’s something about her I don’t trust.
Not that I’m one to talk.
Nobody here knows the real me.
Nobody anywhere does.
And that’s the way I like it.
June is all sun-kissed skin and wet hair, digging into her kale salad like she hasn’t eaten in weeks. Poor thing. Pussy and greens probably don’t make for a very filling diet.
“You should try the shrimp skewers,” I suggest. “They’re insane.”
June glances up and raises an eyebrow at me. “Are they? I try to stay away from meat.”
Right. I watched her devour the jerk chicken the night of the cookoff. “Taste one, you’ll convert.” I grin.
She laughs then. It sounds genuine, real. And it bothers me. It’s easier to play the game when everyone’s pretending, easier to hide in plain sight when nobody’s looking too closely. But sometimes I get this feeling that June looks too closely, piercing through my façade like it isn't even there. That’s a dangerous game to play, especially with me.
I’m beginning to see what I couldn’t put my finger on.
June doesn’t know my story. No one does. But she’s observant. Shrewd.
Which is why I’ve chosen to keep her close.
She grabs a skewer and takes a cautious bite. “You’re right, Heather. It’s fab.” A smile plays on her lips. “But I'll stick to my greens for now.”
I shrug, swirl the ice in my Mai Tai, and take another slow sip. “Your loss.”
