Our relationship, she, is too special, too precious, to risk. In my experience, caring for someone only leads to loss or pain. I can’t lose her too. What we have now, friendship from afar, is safer.
I want to explain. Apologize. I try to type a few responses. But I delete each one before sending.
Finally, I type out a quick response, dread weighing down my heart.
Remington:
I’m so damn sorry. I wish I could give you more than just friendship on a screen. But I can’t. This is all we can ever be.
I hit send.
There’s nothing else to say.
I drop my phone like it’s a snake ready to attack. I’ll pretend this never happened and hope she can too. I’m good at forgetting things, such as the feeling of hunger scraping my belly when I was eight, or the dread of walking into a new foster home.
I step onto my deck to put space between me and my phone, when what I really want is space between me and my thoughts. The wood is cool beneath my feet as I stare at the water below, watching it shift in and out, ever-changing.
I’ve already forgotten my first life. Or at least rewritten my part. I’m now Chase James, superstar. I have a whole fake bio that doesn’t mention anything about dead mothers or runaways. This message is one more thing to pretend didn’t happen in a lifetime of pretending. I guess that’s why I’m so good at acting. I’ve had a lot of practice.
It’s better this way. If I tell myself that often enough, I just might begin to believe it.
CHAPTER 6
Olivia
The next day, I pour my third cup of coffee and will the pounding in my head to stop. Thank God it’s slow in the bookstore today. Audrey is taking advantage of the quiet to organize inventory, so I’m keeping an eye out for customers at the café and trying hard not to puke.
Champagne is evil. The happy bubbles are deceptive and make people do stupid, stupid things. I’d never been a big drinker. My mom had been overfond of alcohol, so I’ve always avoided drinking too much, and now I know why.
But it isn’t just my headache, exhaustion, and upset stomach causing the regret.
It’s what I did last night.
I close my eyes, my head hitting the counter. I look at my phone for the hundredth time that morning.
I sent a selfie to my pen-pal crush. And not just any selfie—a sexy selfie. I hadn’t realized my nips had been in full view in that white shirt. I broke our main rules and smashed through the wall we’d erected. I asked him to tell me his name, send me a photo back. And he turned me down—hard—then went radio silent.
I’m humiliated. Does he think I’m hideous? Does he have a girlfriend? Is he secretly a creepy sixty-year-old man living in his mama’s basement? Has he broken both hands so he can’t type?
Fuck. My. Life.
Remington never indicated he wanted anything more than a virtual relationship with me. The guy ignored every subtle hint I made over the years to become more than online friends.
Tipsy Olivia decided subtle hints were overrated. There was nothing subtle about what I’d done last night.
I cringe for the hundredth time today.
I ruined everything.
The door jingles. I look up to find Daisy strolling toward me. She’s sunshine personified in flared vintage jeans, a white top, and a crocheted green beret that should look ridiculous, but is adorable. Her curly blond hair rebels from two thick braids.
“Happy birthday, babe!” she cries. “Mama’s back!”
Her smile fades into an expression of concern. “Whoa. You look rough.”
“Thanks.”
My forehead collides with the counter again.
“I don’t mean to pry, but what’s that fabulous pink Formica ever done to you?”
“I’m hoping if I hit my head long enough, I might lose my short-term memory of last night. Champagne is evil.”
Daisy grins. “Damn. I missed it. I wanted to be the first to see Drunk Birthday Olivia!”
“Trust me, no one should ever see Drunk Olivia,” I say. “Drunk Olivia is going to crawl back from where she came and never again emerge.”
“And you call me dramatic.” Daisy saunters behind the counter and helps herself to a cup of the brewed coffee, adding a load of sugar and milk to it. Daisy doesn’t work here, but she might as well since she spends more time at the bookshop than at her own store. I keep telling her she needs to hire someone because, while Daisy is great at sourcing designer vintage clothes, she’s crap at the day-to-day running of a business.
“Drinking is the devil. It made me…”