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Were we professing our love together and I passed out from shock and hit my head on the way down becausethatwould be a strange but very much so an us type of story.
“We’re so much more than just friends,” he reassures, sending the butterflies I had trained to stay relatively dormant into a frenzy. “We’re family.”
Oh.
Right.
Talk about anticlimactic.
Disappointment does its best to remain out of sight during my slow nod of agreement. “Yeah, we’re…that.”
It’s Harv’s turn to release an arrogant sound in the form of a hum. “But you’re not acouple,” his fingers smooth out the folded sheet in front of me, “correct?” He waits for my gaze to meet his yet again. “You’re still available for discussions revolving around our relationship?”
“Your. What?!”
And now we’ve reached the next circle of hell awkward.
“You’re datin’ our fuckin’ boss?!” Slater practically shouts at the same time he springs to his feet, a sea of red letters spilling all over me. “How could you not fuckin’ tell me that?!”
“Da-ted.” I swiftly correct, forcing myself to sit up straighter despite the pain it ignites. “As inpasttense.”
“However, I’m hoping there’s a possibility for it to becomepresenttense,” Harv sweetly interjects, heavy scruff covered complexion lighting up.
Slater throws him a glare so powerful it’s comparable to a grenade blast before firing one at me. “How fuckin’pastare we talkin’, Arlette?”
It’s hard to hold back the sneer that hearing my full name come out of his lips conjures. “Almost seven years ago.”
“So long before us?”
“Not exactlylong,” my confession is accompanied by me slinking back beneath the sheets in hopes of faking exhaustion to the point this nightmare can end, “but definitely before us.”
His splayed palms land in the space beside my leg. “How. Fuckin’. Long?”
“Couple weeks.” My best friend’s eyes widen like I’ve just bitch slapped him with the betrayal of the century pushing me to explain. “Like two to the day.”
Slater’s displeased expression remains.
“Harv and I split a few days before Christmas and we – you and I – met in the elevator January 2nd.”
“You remember exactly what day you two met?” Harv suspiciously inquires.
“Of course, she fuckin’ does,” my best friend protectively defends. “We celebrate it every year. For our last one we had Rumchata hot cocoa and cupcakes and a very messy fake snowball fight in her backyard thanks to the machine she got me for Christmas.”
“It’ll come in handy if it doesn’t snow again this year!”
“I know,” Slater concurs without looking at me. “We celebrate lots of shit togetherbecausewe’re family. And that’s whatfamilydoes.”
“And yet,” my ex coldly chomps, “youdidn’t know aboutus.”
There’s no denying the change in Slater’s breathing.
“So, it seems only fair to ask, are youreallyfamily or simply wishing you were?”
Holy. Shit.
Can I fake a stroke or a heart attack?
Am I too young?
