Best Friends Don't Kiss(7)
It’s exhausting.
“Mm-hm, sure,” Luke hums behind me, startling me so much I crack my hip into the edge of the counter with my jump.
He frowns and steps forward, but I wave him away dramatically.
Go back to your apartment and wait for me to be ready! I scream with my eyes. I don’t need him listening in on my conversation. After this many years of friendship, he knows me too well, and I’m really not in the mood for someone to call me on my bullshit.
He rolls his eyes as I wave my arm harder.
“So, did you get my email about the bridesmaids’ dresses?” my sister asks in my ear. I turn away from Luke’s painfully knowing eyes and face my cabinets to answer.
“Sure did,” I respond with a nod. “I’m fine with whatever dress you guys think I should wear.”
“Be serious.” Em snorts. “Surely, there’s one dress you like best.”
The plan is for all of Kate’s bridesmaids to wear black satin, but each dress will have a different silhouette —short, long, A-line, mermaid-style, that sort of thing. And since I’m the maid of honor, I’m supposed to choose first.
“They all looked great to me.”
“Ava, tell me which one you like best.”
What I want to say is that I’ve yet to see a bridesmaid dress that I do like. In my opinion, they’re all pretty much hideous, but I bite my tongue and take a kinder approach.
A piece of paper slides across the counter in front of me, Luke’s scratchy handwriting all over it in Sharpie.
Here’s an idea…why don’t you just tell your family the truth?
I shoo him away again and plug my ear to stop the thoughts he’s insisting on putting into my head.
“Um…how about the mermaid-style?”
“Is that the one you want?”
“Yeah. Sure,” I answer and hitch my hip against the kitchen counter and start to go through my unopened mail as a distraction. “I’ll wear the mermaid-style.”
Luke tosses the piece of paper back on top of the stack of unread mail, this time turned over to the other side to reveal another message.
You know…like how you hate everything they think is great and wish they’d find something else to do with their time than bug you about relationships and shit.
I turn around again, desperate to block him out as my sister blathers on. Unlike Luke, Em is easily convinced by my act and dives into the next order of business—Kate’s bachelorette party. She gives me the lowdown on the night’s plans—dinner, drinks, dancing, no strippers—and I’m listening, even chiming in at times with suggestions.
Luke finally gives up and heads back for his apartment, the front door to my place closing with a thunk behind him.
He’s not actually angry or anything—I know, because we’ve been doing this same dance for the last fifteen years of our friendship, and he hasn’t gotten fed up with me yet.
Still hoping for a distraction in the form of the USPS, I pick up a thick envelope that has a Vermont return address of someone by the name of Callie Camden-Baccus. The name takes almost a full second to register, but when it does…my eyes damn near pop out of my head and tumble onto the counter.
Callie Camden-Baccus? As in high school, cheer-demon, soul-torturing, mean-girl Callie?
What in the hell and tarnation is she doing sending me something? And how in the actual f-word did she get my New York address?
Curiosity officially piqued, I open the envelope and pull out a thick, fancy invitation.
You’re Invited!
Lakewood High’s Fifteen-Year Reunion
December 26th, 7:30 p.m.
Ha! There’s no way I’ll be attending my high school reunion. I’d rather have all of my teeth removed and sport dentures for the rest of my life than sit through that event. Sure, I’m still friends with some select people from high school, but I don’t need to go to my reunion to catch up with them. And I don’t need to catch up with Callie freaking Camden—period.
I rip up the outer envelope and scoop the entire contents in both hands, propping the phone between my shoulder and my ear and head for the trash. I step on the pedal to lift the lid, poised to let her rip, but a small piece of paper falls out of the bottom of the stack and flutters to the floor. Brow furrowed, I unfold the fancy, flower-embossed stationery and read the note.
Ava,
I am so excited that you’re going to help plan the big reunion!
Call me so we can figure out all of the details! (555-143-6789)
Can’t wait to see you in December!
XOXO, Callie
Car tires and records screech, and a gap opens up in the space-time continuum. What in the sweet baby Jesus in a manger did I just read?
Help plan the reunion? Me?
No no no no no no. I don’t think so.
Where in the hell did she get the idea that I would?
“Hello?” Em’s voice fills my ear. “You still there, Ava?”
“Shit. Sorry.” I shake my head to pull myself out of my spiral into the world’s worst nightmare. “I just…uh…I got this really weird invitation in the mail, and I’m…confused.”
“What invitation?”
“To my fifteen-year high school reunion.”