CHAPTER ONE
ASHLIE
Don’t let your worry keep you from your joy. The refrain whirls through my head, taunting me like the unrealistic expectation it is. When I originally heard the words, they gave five-year-old me the courage to jump in the pool for the first time. Now, the phrase reminds me of my inadequacy. Worry and I are like California and sunshine—you rarely have one without the other. And joy? That’s a hard thing to come by these days too.
“Hold still, Ash!” My best friend’s voice jerks me out of my mental spiral. “You’re going to have pink all over your toes.” Kayla swipes her finger around my cuticle. She sits crisscross on my cream faux-fur area rug as I take my turn for a pedicure. The TV casts a reddened glow over her deep bronze skin. I wiggle my toes with a smile, and she glares at me, setting the polish on my mahogany coffee table. “I’ll stop right now…”
“And leave me with half-painted toes? Doubtful.” There’s no way she’d half-ass anything, pedicure or otherwise.
She rolls her eyes and picks up the polish with a sigh, losing to the perfectionist inside her. Settling back into the tan leather sofa with a satisfied smirk, I flick my eyes to the TV mounted on the wall. AScandalized Phenomenamarathon, and a night with my best friend is exactly what I need right now. I’ve missed this—spending time together until we’re sick of each other.
Kayla Harris and I have been best friends since we met in high school. We’re from a small town up the coast called Fort Bender, but with her living in San Francisco and me here in LA, we haven’t been able to have girls’ nights like this in a while. After picking her up from the airport this afternoon, we’ve jam-packed our evening with sushi, ice cream, mani-pedis, and our favorite show on Netvids.
She caps the nail polish and sits next to me, sweeping her black locs over her shoulder. My phone rumbles on the table, and I snatch it up before she can see it. Her eyes narrow immediately. “Who was that?”
“Uh, just Hunter.” Strategically turning my phone away from her, I check the message and stifle a laugh.
Hunter
Next time, you’re doing this shit.
Kayla doesn’t know this yet, but she’s getting engaged tomorrow. And apparently, there’s a complication at the cake shop.
“If it’s just my brother, why’d you grab it like that?” Her eyes pop wide. “Ew! Did you two?—”
“Uh-uh! Nope. That’s noteverhappening.” I shake my head emphatically to convince her that her brother—my other best friend—is not someone I have any interest in. Hunter’s been a friend for years.Onlya friend…except for that one time. But we don’t talk about that. I refuse. He’s the poster child for players et al. Having a casual relationship has never been something I’ve wanted.
“Hey, it’s your life.” Her hands tap her knees with nonchalance. Knowing her, she’s about to dig for details on my boyfr—scratch that—ex-boyfriend. It’ll be the third time she’s mentioned him today. “Speaking of... Where’s Marcus tonight?”
I sigh, rolling my eyes. “I thought we were having a girls’ night. We don’t need to talk about Marcus…”
“So, there’s something to talk about, then?” Her eyebrow lifts as she pins me with a stare.
“Ugh, fine.” I swipe to my email and pull up the hurried message my boyfri—ex-boyfriend—sent a week ago. Scanning it over again like it’ll give me any more clarity on the abrupt end to our relationship probably isn’t the best idea. But I do it anyway.
____________________________________________________
From:Marcus Taylor
To:Ashley Willis
Ashley,
I regret to inform you that I can no longer pursue this relationship.
Best,
Marcus Taylor, MD
Resident Physician in Radiology
University of Los Angeles Medical Hospital
____________________________________________________
I may not seek out casual flings, but I clearly gravitate toward the emotionally detached, holier-than-thou types who pretend to want a relationship. Releasing a puff of air, I hand my phone to Kayla and bite my thumbnail.
Marcus and I were together long enough that this shitty means of communication shouldn’t have happened. Almost nine months, and he went out of his way to send a breakup via form letter, spelling my damn name wrong in the process. Whodoesthat? I’ll log this into the growing evidence for why I’m such a failure another day. But he could have texted, at the least.
