A grin slowly forms on my lips. They want me to demonstrate stability? To prove I can be serious? To convince them I’m no longer an immature playboy?
Well, challenge accepted, assholes. Because I think I know just the way to do that.
Now, I just need a willing participant.
Statistically, the odds are I will grow a third boob before I find a legal way out of this crisis.
After a much-needed shower to wash the shame of screwing Damian off my skin, I spend the rest of the day on the sofa in my comfiest sweats, watching trashy television with Mom. Normally, we’d binge-watchCold Case Filesor some other show or film about crime and murder, but I don’t think either of us can stomach anything having to do with death at the moment. So, we settle for an old sitcom where the worst that happens in the characters’ fictional world is cheating. A shit scenario for the wounded party, but not quite as shit as cancer.
Once seven o’clock hits, Mom can barely keep her eyes open, and I help her to bed before settling back on the couch, those damning letters from the insurance company taunting me from where they lay less than two feet away. I sit with my elbows on my knees, hands steepled in front of my face like I’m a villainplotting the downfall of my nemesis. In reality, my mind is blank as I burn holes in the coffee table with my stare.
I thought finding out my mom has cancer was the worst news I would ever get. But this—hearing there’s nothing we can do to battle it because of our financial situation—is worse. Way worse. And the crazy thing is our finances aren’t even bad. I mean, we’re hardly destitute. We get by just fine. But even if we didn’t, something like this shouldn’t happen to anyone.
I can’t accept it. I won’t. I’ll find the money one way or another. Hell, I’ll rob a fucking bank if I have to. Or failing that, there’s always the option of selling pictures of my feet on the internet.
A sharp knock on the front door startles me out of my daze, and I jump off the sofa, dashing to answer it before whoever’s on the other side does it again and inadvertently wakes up Mom. She needs her rest. She needs to keep up her strength until I figure out what to do.
“Coming,” I hiss, unlocking the deadbolt, pausing for only a split second to wonder who it could be. It won’t be Gina—she’s working the night shift tonight—and I’m not expecting anyone. I suppose it could be a serial killer; I’ve watched enough documentaries to know rocking up to an unsuspecting victim’s door could totally be their MO. At this point, I might actually welcome one. Getting stabbed to death would certainly be one solution to my problems.
Unfazed by the thought of my potential demise at the hands of some Ted Bundy wannabe, I pull open the door, and to my surprise, I find my two best friends smiling back at me from the other side of the threshold. Ronnie offers me a tiny wave, clutching a large Louis Vuitton bag to her chest, while Andie stands beside her in all her 5’10” glory, looking like the latest cover model for Sports Illustrated. Between Ronnie, with her flawless babydoll skin and gorgeous auburn hair, andAndie, who stands a whole head taller than her cousin with her swimsuit-ready body, shining mahogany mane, and the enviable perma-tan she inherited from her Chilean father, it’s easy to see why people stare when they walk into a room. As for me, given how little I care about makeup and clothes, I sometimes joke that I’m the “before” picture in a makeover montage.
Unsurprisingly, the cousins are dressed in pajamas, which just goes to show that one can be rich and still be your typical college student at heart.
“Hey,” I mutter, confusion pinching my brow. “What are you guys doing here?”
Ronnie shoots me a stupefied look. “Moral support. Duh.”
Andie’s mouth quirks into a timid smile, and I glimpse the apology in her chestnut eyes before she says it. “Sorry for barging in on you, Lex. Ronnie and I just wanted to pop by to make sure you’re okay.”
A chill passes through my body at her words.AmI okay? I was just contemplating committing a crime or selling pics to foot fetishizers for money, but that doesn’t mean I’mnotokay…does it?
When I don’t say anything, Ronnie frowns and gestures past me into the hallway. “Well, are you going to let us in?”
I hesitate, not because Mom is asleep, but because I’m so close to losing my cool that if I invite them in, there’s a good chance I’ll fall apart, and I don’t want to put that burden on anyone. This introvert keeps her wallowing to herself.
Averting my gaze, I cup my hand over my mouth and fake the world’s most unconvincing yawn. “I would, but I’m literally about to pass ou?—”
“Cut the crap,” Ronnie interrupts. “First off, it’s still light outside. You aren’t going to bed unless you’re secretly eighty-seven years old, so we all know that’s a bald-faced lie. Second, I know you better than you think, Lexi Dornan, and it’s obviousyou’re in emotional peril. What kind of friends would we be if we left you alone in such a vulnerable state?”
Bemused by Ronnie’s outburst, I glance at Andie, who mimes pushing invisible glasses up her nose.Ugh. I didn’t even realize I’d done that. Stupid anxiety and its control on my stupid fidgeting hand.
“Well? Am I right?” Ronnie presses.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, my hands clasped together to keep from touching my glasses again—from revealing the one telltale sign that always indicates to anyone who knows me well that something is wrong. That I’m not okay.
I’m tempted to lie, to tell her I’m fine and to insist they go home, but I don’t. I’m not sure why. Maybe, deep down, I do want to talk, or at the very least, not be alone right now. Or maybe Ronnie has finally mastered the art of mind manipulation.
Either way, the admission tumbles from my lips as if beyond my control. “Maybe.”
Sometimes, I think Ronnie should reconsider her plans for after college. She wants to be an actor—specifically, a star on West End or Broadway before eventually moving to TV or film—but her talents would be much better utilized as an interrogator working for the FBI or even the military, as absurd as the notion may seem. My dainty BFF might not look the part, but she has this intensity about her that is borderline terrifying, and people generally have a tough time saying no to her because of this almost hypnotic effect she has on them. I once saw her make a grown man full on weep in less than thirty seconds of talking to him. I have no doubt that, if she really wanted to, she could pull out just about anyone’s deepest, darkest secrets.
She certainly never has to work hard for mine.
Her lips curl into a triumphant smirk. “That’s what I thought. Well, we come bearing four listening ears and two pairs ofshoulders for you to cry on should you need them. Oh”—she unzips her bag, allowing me a quick peek inside—“and several bottles of wine. Assuming you aren’t too hungover, that is.”
“It’s the good stuff,” Andie adds, as if I really needed further convincing.
Although I roll my eyes, I can’t hide the grateful smile spreading over my face. “Come on in,” I say, moving to one side of the entryway. “I’ll go get some glasses. But we have to keep the noise down. Mom is asleep.”
