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I don’t know that I’ve ever been more grateful for Seer as I am in this moment, but the urge I have to pull her into a tight hug is serious enough that I restrain myself. Baby steps. Don’t want to give Frannie a heart attack.
“Thank you,” I manage, slipping the lid and bow back on. I can already imagine Piper standing at her kitchen counter, opening this box once I have it delivered. Preferably with Carla recording her reaction, but that could be negotiated. “You two are lifesavers.”
“Just don’t let anyone in on the fact that I’m not a completely heartless bitch,” Seer replies with a shrug, and I glance between her and Frannie, waiting for my sister to defend her friend’s character.
But Frannie isn’t listening. She’s eying the stack of papers underneath the box.
“Is that my Cosette email?” Frannie reaches out her hand, and I shuffle things around until I’m able to hand it to her. “You finally gave me some usable notes,” she says after a minute. “These are really good. I’d never thought about theming the package tiers like the chandelier.”
“Uh, actually.” My hand finds the back of my neck. “I didn’t do those.” She looks at me, and then down to her friend, who is observing her. “Piper may have done them while she was over this weekend.”
Frannie makes a face like she’s going to vomit, just for the briefest of moments, but then she shakes her head, looking back down at the papers in front of her.
“Is she looking for a job?”
Piper
FITZ WESTFALL
Why do you want to know who my childhood crush is?
PIPER DELMONICO
Don’t be a party pooper and just answer the question.
FITZ WESTFALL
Excuse me, I hold almost exclusively parties for a living and have never been a “party pooper.”
Fine, who was your childhood crush?
PIPER DELMONICO
Easy. Nick Jonas.
FITZ WESTFALL
Not even a second of hesitation there.
PIPER DELMONICO
What can I say, I have a thing for curls. (:
Now tell me!!!
FITZ WESTFALL
See, this was my plan all along. Get your answers out of you and share nothing in return.
PIPER DELMONICO
Jackass
FITZ WESTFALL
*Strategic*
Istareattheempty chair on my computer screen for a solid two minutes before my therapist, Ava, slides back into view, apologizing profusely. There’s something about a therapist with stress-induced IBS that can relate to you on a cellular level to set you at ease.
