Friends Don't Fall in Love(7)
Shelby’s tone is arid. “The wedding’s in Michigan, not Antarctica. I’m pretty sure we have three Targets within a ten-mile radius if you need to run out for self-tanner.”
I snort. “Please. I haven’t voluntarily used self-tanner since high school.” I flip on my belly. “Gut check. How’re you feeling? Nervous? Excited?”
Shelby releases a long breath. “Starry-eyed and ready. I’ve been waiting for this day since I was ten years old. I just want to be married to him.”
My lips spread in a wide smile, knowing that’s not an exaggeration. Shelby and Cameron first met when they costarred on a popular kids’ show as tweens, and while the road has been long and windy, my friend has long insisted she fell ass over chin for him on the very first day. Seeing them together, I believe it. Everyone believes it. It’s like watching a miracle come to life. Baby kittens, unicorns, Mitch McConnell voting in the interest of climate change … that kind of thing. “I can’t wait to see it, babe. I miss the fuck out of you guys.”
I hear the front door and hop up from the bed. “My ride’s here. I gotta go.”
“Okay! Be safe! See you tonight!” Shelby chirps. I end the call, dragging my suitcase off the bed with a heavy thud. Passing my vanity, I grab a pair of Ray-Bans to stick on my head before stuffing a tube of lip balm in my jeans pocket.
I realize belatedly that the commotion at the front door is knocking, which is weird considering I’m expecting Huck and he could just use his key.
“Coming!” I yell, for no good reason since the outer walls of the duplex are old brick and extra dense. They look cool as hell and insulate perfectly so the neighbors aren’t treated to any private concerts when I can’t sleep. Which is admittedly often. Fortunately, my landlord slash upstairs neighbor is a night owl as well as a music fan because I swear I can hear when the man so much as sneezes.
I take one last quick look around to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything obvious, and fling open the door. “Sorry, I’m rea—Drake?”
Damn. I knew I shouldn’t have ignored his texts all morning, but to be honest, I’m extra not in the mood for his special brand of bullshit today.
My ex-fiancé—as well as the current pain in my ass—Drake Colter is standing at the door, hand raised and ready to bang again. The midmorning sun glows behind him, painting him in a laughably ethereal light. Time has been too kind to him. His formerly round cheeks are artfully stubbled, and his designer T-shirt hugs his tattooed biceps. He removes his sunglasses and flashes a winning grin.
“Hey, Lore.”
My glasses slip down my forehead and I drop my lug gage with a clunk in order to free my hand to nudge them in place before crossing my arms over my chest. “What do you want?”
His brows furrow, creating a little crease. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s hurt at my sharp tone. Luckily, I know better. I lean a hip on the jamb, waiting. “I’m on my way out, Drake.”
“To Shelby and Cam’s wedding.” His casual use of my best friends’ names raises my hackles. “I know,” he says eagerly. “That’s why I’m here.”
I blink, wondering if I have enough time to brew a third cup of coffee. Clearly I’m undercaffeinated after staying up too late working through a tricky stanza. “Elaborate.” Behind him, I see a familiar dark Subaru pull up and amend, “Quickly.”
I’m aware Drake’s lips are moving, but I can’t hear any words over the buzzing in my ears once I realize he’s not even trying to hide the designer label weekender bag at his side.
“Wait,” I interrupt, holding up a hand, my dark red nails glinting in the sun and a dull ache starting to form behind my eyes. “Jesus fuck, Drake. Do you think you’re coming with me?”
He flashes a half-cocked, wholly smarmy grin. “Well, yeah. I got us two first-class tickets to Michigan.”
My eyes slip closed, and I bite back a groan. “Whatever gave you the idea you were invited?”
To his credit, or maybe not, he seems genuinely confused. “Your best friends are getting married. I’m trying to be supportive here. Making amends. All the garbage I should have done before. I told you this already in my texts. And I left a voice mail. And made a post on Instagram.”
I ignore the whole “garbage” comment, as if being a wedding date for someone who you supposedly love is the same as disposable. “And you thought now was the time?”
“What d’you mean, now? Hell, Lore, I’ve been at this for months. Years even.”
I scoff and roll my eyes. “Oh, sorry, were those vague social media posts that your publicist wrote supposed to be for my benefit or the benefit of your legions of rabid Colter fans?”
To his credit, he doesn’t hesitate—much. “Obviously yours. If you’d let me near you, I’d tell you to your face, but clearly”—he gestures at my crossed arms—“you’re still shutting me out.”
He takes a step closer, his scent all too familiar, and for a habanero-hot second, I’m tempted to suck more of him into my lungs to savor. Just one more hit for the road. But just as quickly, I catch a whiff of the familiar eau de heartache, disappointment, and Sorry, baby I would return the favor, but I’ve got an early morning in the studio. Can you maybe get yourself off tonight? I shake my head, pushing him away with my palm to his (unfortunately) firm chest. “I told you, Drake. It’s too late.”