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I sit down beside her and squeeze her shoulder. “Talk to me. I’m your friend. I’m supposed to suffer from your incessant chatter and hold your hair back from your face when you puke your drunken ass off after parties. Don’t make me lose my job.”
She sniffs, but her mouth quirks. “I didn’t puke last night.”
“There will be another time, don’t worry.” I pat her back. “Now… Ryan. What the hell happened?”
“He’s an ass.”
“What did he do?”
“He won’t go out with me.”
“You asked him?” Sometimes she’s so conservative I never thought she’d break tradition and be the one to do the asking.
“Couldn’t wait forever, could I?” She turns toward me, shutting off her phone and shaking it at me. “He should have asked me out already. I was only speeding things up a little.”
“He just said no?”
“He said he’s not interested.”
Given that Brylee has been after him for God knows how long—a year?—and he never showed any hint of interest, well… That should have been a clue.
Then again, who am I to talk, huh?
Fresh tears well in her eyes. “Why is he fighting it? It’s obvious he wants me.”
“Come again?”
“We’re meant to be,” Brylee whispers.
“Meant to be? What, like in a fairytale?”
“Yes! What if I was like Cinderella and we met at a party and—”
“You’re not Cinderella. You’re Brylee.”
“Brylee Cindy Ella,” she says, pouting.
“No way… Seriously? That’s your name?” I try not to gape at this bit of info. Okay, but it doesn’t matter. “His name isn’t prince… is it?”
She won’t meet my gaze. “And if it is?”
“Ryan Prince? Are you kidding me?” Another thought strikes me and no way… “Is that why you want him? You think you were meant to be?”
“Don’t you?”
Jeez. I don’t even know what to say.
All this time giving me shit over my fantasy with two guys, over my imaginary boyfriends, when she’s been living a fantasy full time. Not to mention, my imaginary boyfriends are turning out to be all too real.
***
Sunday is spent at home, in front of my computer, chatting with Connie. I have my phone beside me, in case Jet or Joel call, but they don’t, and I don’t find the courage to call or text them myself.
Not yet.
Besides, Connie is distracting me.
“You what?” she writes, adding a row of emojis slapping their cheeks and screaming. “You’re shitting me.”
