“If you and Vin are just friends, Alex and I are, too.”
She shakes her head at me as she finishes her first glass of champagne, grabbing the bottle to top us both up. “Nope. Vincenzo and I aren’t in love. You and Alex aresoulmates. You can’t be friends with benefits and also soulmates. It doesn’t work.”
I watch the bubbles cling to the edge of my glass, heart sinking. She’s not wrong. Alex and I both know this only ends in disaster, but neither of us has the willpower to stay away. “We can’t be together; we can’t be apart. I don’t know what we’re doing. Maybe in a few years we could work.”
“You could be together.”
“How?”
I watch the cogs in her brain turn, playing out each scenario. I pack up my whole life, give up on my degree and my new friendships, get on a plane, and move to New York?No.He moves his entire family to Scotland?No.He moves to the UK, leaving his family behind?No.We do it long distance, only seeing each other occasionally?No.
Her chest deflates. “Look … if there’s no way for you to be together, whatever it is you’re doing now is just going to make life harder on you both.”
“I know. I tried to tell him that,” I grumble, just as a text from Alex pings through on my phone.
Alex
Hey, Twist. How are you feeling? FaceTime?
With Colette’s wisdom still fresh in the air between us, I type out a reply.
Ophelia
Sorry, I can’t.
His reply is immediate, as always.
Alex
You okay? Did you sleep better last night?
I switch my phone to silent, pushing him out of my mind. I did sleep better last night, as I have every night since he started calling me right before I go to bed, reading aloud until I drift off into some lustful dream. But Colette is right. Alex’s heart is broken enough,myheart is broken enough, and I’m playing with them.
No strings attachedis the stupidest lie I’ve ever told.
I toss my phone across the room, finishing my second glass while Colette books us a pedicure each and orders two mimosas.
IT’S TWO INthe morning, and I ameasilydrunker than I have ever been in my life. I might throw up in this super luxury room.
My toenails look cute, though, and my feet aresosmooth.
Colette slaps my phone out of my hand before I send a photo of my feet to Alex. “Girl, what are you doing?” she slurs, the end of each word melting into the beginning of the next.
“Fishing for compliments,” I say, trying to grab it back. When I bend over, the whole world tilts on its axis. “Was that an earthquake?” I shriek.
“A drunkquake,” she says, changing into her pajama shorts. “You don’t need compliments; you’re so pretty.”
“Not according to everyone at Sorrowsong,” I say, sticking out my bottom lip. The room service guy arrives with two pizzas, and I can’t decide if I want to inhale them or gag.
She opens her box on the bed and folds a slice in half, eating it in one massive bite. “You’resopretty. They’re just mean.”
Oh no. I think I might be crying. Another text pings through from Alex.
Alex
I saw you last night, in my dream.
Ophelia
