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There are a dozen messages from Phoebe in a state of panic that only Phoebe can find herself in.
Phoebe: Talk me out of getting bangs
Phoebe: Like right now…
Phoebe: I think it will make my face look skinnier.
Phoebe: Like Reese Witherspoon.
Phoebe: I got bangs.
Phoebe: Why didn’t you talk me out of this!
Phoebe: I look like a ten-year-old boy.
The messages went on and on, pictures of her new do attached. I laugh quietly, not arguing that the hairdresser did a poor number on her hair. I respond quickly, fielding through her regrets. In the middle of my best-friend duty where I begin to tell her it’ll grow back, a message appears from an unknown number.
Unknown: Sorry I left. Not sure why I did.
I stare at the few words. I’m unsure how he got my number or even how to respond. I look up at Logan. He’s busy typing something on his phone. It gives me a few moments to think about what to say. My gut tells me I should just cut ties now. Wesley has issues I should probably stay away from.
Then my secret gut—the one underneath that gut—types faster than I can think.
Me: I don’t even know how to respond.
I hit send, instantly cringing at my honesty and letting out a frustrated sigh.
“Is everything okay?” Logan asks, lifting his eyes away from his screen, though he’s still typing.
“Uh, yeah. Just did something I probably shouldn’t have. You know, stupid text.”
He nods his head. “Boyfriend?”
“Um… no. Boyfriend is back home.”
Liam. How the concept seems so foreign.
I need to stop now. This isn’t right. My head’s been all over the place, and Wesley fills this emptiness that has consumed me. None of this is right, and as long as I distance myself from Wesley as much as possible, last night will just be added to the list of regretful nights starring Milana Milenov and a bottle of wine.
“Alaska, right? Emmy was telling me. You must think it’s crazy out here. I know I do.”
Logan tells me about Emerson and him growing up back East. How simple their lives were and how family means everything to them. Emerson’s brother, Ashley, was Logan’s best friend. He was also a soccer player and the three of them being in the limelight was a far cry from their simple upbringing.
He’s so proud of her, that much is obvious. When he speaks about her, his eyes lit up. The contours of his face change, and he speaks with adoration. Though, in her presence, he plays the ignorant card and purposely riles her up to goad some sort of reaction.
“Sounds like she was the one all along.” I smile softly, admiring their love story.
“Yeah.” He grins. “Just don’t tell her that. She gets a big head.”
“I won’t, though, I’m sure she knows it. So, you guys have been together for how long?”
He raises an eye, thinking for a moment before answering, “Almost two years.”
“Oh, I somehow thought it was longer.”
“Depends on what you consider together. She was with someone, but the circumstances were complicated. I’m sure you know all about it anyway. The whole world does.”
My expression freezes on a smile, another moment where my lack of celebrity knowledge makes me look like a dumbass.
