Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Daniel announces, “We have Lake Axelrod for a couple of minutes,” and before the final word is out, a baby-faced sports reporter in the front row shouts, “Why were you hitting stuffed foxes into the stands the other night? Was that a commentary on the Jumbotron Dump?”
Holy shit. It has a name? “No,” I bite out.
“‘No’ to it being a commentary, or ‘no’ to it being about the Jumbotron Dump?”
For fuck’s sake. “Why are we talking about something that happened two nights ago?”
“Because it’s still news,” he says earnestly. “The video has more than two million views.”
It’s like someone punched me in the kidneys. I guess that’s a clue as to how Remy must be doing—awful.
Daniel clears his throat. “If you want to ask Lake about tonight’s game, that’s fine. Let’s focus on the present.”
Nice redirect. Answering dumb questions about the stuffie slap shots won’t help Remy. People will talk about the Jumbotron incident, whether I comment or not.
If only I could distract them.
While answering perfunctory questions about tonight’s game, I scan the room for inspiration. Then, yup, I’ve got it.
I wrap up my time, stand, and give a wave, something I never do. I say a polite goodbye as I leave the dais. Also out of character. Keeps their focus on me. As I pass the snack table, I grab a handful of Goldfish crackers, toss one high into the air, and dart out my tongue to catch it. Then another, then another. By the time I’ve reached the door, I’ve caught ten in a row.
I look back at the media gaggle, and they’re all recording me. “To answer your question about the other night,” I say, from the doorway, “I guess I just wanted to show off my fun side.”
Then I exit. Maybe it won’t go viral, but maybe it’ll take some heat off of Remy, and she won’t have to deal with more blowback.
But in case she does, I want to make her day a little better. On the way home, I duck into a shop and send a little something to her place, along with a handwritten note.
Hope this is keeping you in good company now.
5
WELCOME TO MY SISTER’S TED TALK
REMY
Caroline yanks a knife from the wooden block in my kitchen and holds it up to the window, where the mid-morning sun glints across the sharp blade. She stares at it with a cool green gaze that never suffers fools.
But, with a frustrated sigh, she puts it back. “He’s not worth the waste of a good knife.”
“Plus, you hate messes.” I knock back another gulp of chai latte.
A tip of her head acknowledges my point. My sister’s morning blowout is still gloriously intact after hosting her streaming lifestyle show, hitting the gym, and making a chai—which she’d brought to me as a lubricant for the conversation we need to have, as her text this morning put it. I’ve been bracing for the worst.
In the two weeks since the Jumbotron Dump, I’ve become known online as the Friendship Bracelet Girl. Because why have one name for your most embarrassing moment when the Internet can give you two?
That first weekend, I reorganized my closet here in the guest house where I live, just to the side of my sister’s townhome. I devoured a few dark chocolate bars from my favorite shop (thanks to Mom’s sympathy gift) and fixed a loose hinge on the closet door, touched up some paint in the kitchen, and watered the succulent Lake sent me. A lovely, thoughtful surprise. It’s a Ruby Glow, rubbery green with red edges, and it fits my windowsill collection nicely.
Next, I wrote a note to my future self—my therapist would be proud—reminding myself not to fall for guys who just want to be friends.
Because that’s kind of all Jameson and I were—companions. I wanted us to work so damn badly that I was holding us together with details and the duct tape of my own wishes, missing signs that seem obvious looking back.
Frowning, I finish the latte and set down the mug. As if she’s been waiting for that, Caroline marches over to me, meets my gaze, and says, “It’s time to talk.” Her Machiavellian eyes flicker with strategy. “You should know, I have no problem kicking Jameson out of the wedding party before the festivities kick off.”
“Why?”
“Because he broke your heart. Therefore, I hate him.”
I laugh, but her expression remains serious. Also, I’m not so sure my heart’s broken, per se. It’s embarrassed, like the rest of me. “Caroline, you don’t have to do that. He’s best friends with Parker. You guys set us up.”
“I know. And it seemed so perfect with him working at the arena and all,” she says, regret in her tone. But it’s replaced quickly with vindication. “And that’s why I will boot him. I’ll just tell Parker it’s done, and he’ll have to accept that.”