Callum: We weren’t.
Noah: She wore the dress again. THE dress. It’s got to be lucky.
Callum: If I had to guess, it’s the only thing in her closet she didn’t buy at a secondhand store.
I sound like a dick.
But also, I’m not in the mood to hear how good she looked.
I know she looked good.
That dress is a straight up felony in my book.
I feel physically assaulted every time I see it. But in a good way. Sore the next morning with a shameless grin on your face good. However, I don’t need anyone else thinking that, even if it is my younger, Johnny Depp looking friend. Especially if it’s my younger, Johnny Depp looking friend
Noah: I think you slam dunked this one. I doubted you and your crazy charade, but you just might pull it off. And if at the end of it all you score again, that’s not so bad either.
Callum: Goodnight.
I am done with this conversation, and I move on to the dreaded message.
Might as well get it all out of the way so when I get home I can shower and go to bed and ignore my life for all of six hours before the sun assaults me through the blinds and I start all over again.
I’m about to open the texts from Avery when he calls and I accidentally accept the call instead.
Fuck.
“You’re out of your goddamn mind,” his voice pours into the car, and I pull away from the curb. I’m not going to sit here and listen to this. I might as well drive fast and listen to it. “I call your bluff.”
“No bluff,” I say calmly. “We really are married.”
“That doesn’t mean shit. And a chapel my ass. You did it at a courthouse didn’t you?”
“Actually, it was a chapel. Insta something, I don’t know. Look it up. It’s legit.”
“But the marriage is clearly a sham. Maybe our old man can’t see through the bullshit because he’s senile. But I do. I know what you’re up to and I’m calling bullshit.”
“First of all,” I raise my voice. “He’s not senile. He’s sick.”
“Irrelevant. Whatever you’re trying to pull here, just know this. You won’t win.”
“I don’t know what you're talking about, Avery. Amanda was a hit. She’s smart, beautiful and a hell of a songwriter. Whether you like it or not, things are ruling in my favor.”
“I still call bullshit.”
I can’t help the grin on my face. It’s petty, I know. But I have spent my entire life competing with this guy and winning. He makes a competition out of literally fucking everything but that’s his own downfall. Because he doesn’t put in the time or work to succeed. Exhibit A: Zoe. He may bring her to every dinner and red carpet, but their relationship is about as deep as a kiddy pool.
“You can see the certificate if you want. But at the end of the day, Amanda and I are married.”
“Again. Real marriage does not equal real relationship. So, this is very much not over.”
He hangs up abruptly and it’s a wave of relief not hearing his whiney voice in my car anymore. I set my phone aside, not in the mood to entertain anyone else. It’s been a hell of a week and it’s not even half over. From seeing Amanda first thing in the morning with a steaming cup of hazelnut coffee and an even steamier body. To that dress.
Fuck my life, that dress.
The comment I made about her not owning anything else nice was probably a dickish thing to say. But according to the profile that I finally looked over, most of her writing jobs have either been remote or with very small studios and local artists.
Her tapes are what got her in the door, not her resume.
