“Loren,” she says, her voice still icy, “just give me a sign that you understand anything I’m saying.” She really wants me to make up with Connor. This is coming from a girl who dislikes me the most out of everyone in our group of six.
Everything Rose said makes more and more sense to me. Connor won’t apologize or say he’s wrong, not if he believes he’s right. But the fact that I frazzled him in some way—that means he cares about something other than just himself.
It has to mean that our friendship is real.
I give her a weak thumbs-up, practically sideways, like a half-assed affirmative answer.
“Always juvenile.” She gives me a look like I’ll take it and approaches the quarter-filled coffee pot, too impatient to wait any longer.
I set my mug on the counter and open the pantry door.
Footsteps sound on the floorboards. “Rose, have you…” Connor trails off only when he sees me. I don’t pay him that much attention. He swallows and then regains his focus. “…my passport, have you seen it? I thought I left it in our drawer.”
“I organized it with our itinerary.”
I grab a bag of bagels and set them on the island. Connor’s eyes flicker to me again, tension mounting in the air. He’s already dressed in a white button-down and black slacks.
I put a bagel in my mouth, take out an extra, and twirl the bag closed.
Connor speaks to Rose in French, and she snaps back in the same language.
I’m too used to the French to be bothered by it. I just fill my coffee and slip the extra bagel in the toaster.
Then Connor says, “Lo…”
I don’t spin around as I head to the living room. I just point to the toaster. “I’m not going to butter it for you.” I take a bite of my bagel and only glance back once. Yeah, I made the guy breakfast, a small, small sign of peace between us.
I watch as his lips pull into one of those genuine smiles—one that holds no trace of arrogance.
I add, “It doesn’t mean that I’m not still mad at you.” I won’t let him off the hook that easily, but I doubt this fight will last much longer.
“I prefer my friends angry,” Connor says. “It makes me look better.”
“Too soon,” I tell him, eating my bagel and walking back to the living room.
I can practically feel his grin widen behind me. And it takes me a minute to realize that I’m smiling too.
{ 26 }
0 years : 07 months （March）
LILY CALLOWAY
I underestimated the amount of people that watch Princesses of Philly. A couple teenagers sip lattes and peek around a tall bookshelf, whispering as they spy on Lo and me. It’s impossible to be invisible with Brett’s camera pointed at us.
I keep asking myself why we left the townhouse. My brows crinkle. I don’t have an answer, so I turn to Lo who peruses the Sci-Fi/Fantasy aisle in the local bookstore.
“Why did we leave the townhouse?” I ask “Fresh air.” He pulls out a small trade paperback and scans the summary. He mostly reads comics, but on occasion, he’ll branch out into these genres. He devoured Game of Thrones before watching the television show. I told him that I finished the first book, but really, I just skipped around and read Arya’s parts.
She’s the best.
Laughter emanates from one shelf behind us. My shoulders curve forward, hoping that it’s not something I did. “The air was pretty fresh back home.”
He gives me a look, one that says: I don’t want you becoming a scared, little hermit. His looks say more than his words. That’s a fact.
I inhale strongly and try to follow Lo’s lead. Just relax, Lily. Be casual. I shake out my arms and scan the row of books. Then I freeze, sensing beady eyes bore down on me.
Slowly, I look up and spot someone with a mop of brown hair, watching us from above a shelf. He ducks quickly when our eyes meet.
Holy shit.
I can’t do this.
I can’t.
I grab Lo’s hand, my chest constricting in a paranoid, freakazoid way. Swiftly, I drag him into the nearest bathroom, ignoring the fact that Brett trails us. I shut the door on the cameraman before he enters.
He pounds on the door in protest.
“I’m peeing!” I shout.
His fist must fall because everything grows silent outside.
My eyes dance over the door like someone is going to intrude any second. “Everyone is staring,” I whisper to Lo. I shiver, like eyes have attached onto me. Like they can see me in here.
When I turn to Lo, his gaze softens for me. I prepare myself for an epic pep talk. He holds my biceps. “You’re a sex addict and I’m an alcoholic,” he says, “and the whole fucking world knows it. We have to get used to people staring, love.”