Charlotte notices, eyes narrowing in the direction of the entrance. “Whoisthat?"
“Trust me. You don’t wanna know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
If Hell has a high school, Hope is its homecoming queen.
I keep ducked down, croissant flakes snowing onto my leggings as I place my breakfast on the coffee table and pray she hasn’t seen me. Or if she has, maybe she hasn’t recognized me. After all, it’s been more than two years since I last saw her. I’ve changed since then. Gained back the confidence she stole, had a serious glow-up, and reinvented myself.
“Um. Why are we hiding?” Samantha asks, sounding concerned.
With a groan I peek back toward the front of the café, relieved to see she’s at the counter, ordering. Maybe she’ll get her coffee and go.
“That’s Hope Adams,” I whisper. “She made my life hell in high school. Then senior year, she pretended to be my friend only to steal my boyfriend and prom date.”
Avery gasps. “For real?”
I nod, trying to make myself as small as possible lest she notices me before she leaves.
“Bitch,” Brynn says a little too loudly, shooting daggers in her direction.
“Don’t look!” I hiss, grabbing Brynn’s arm and tugging her forward.
“Lizzie?” The voice floats, impossibly familiar, from over my shoulder. I freeze. Even buried in the cozy buzz of Java and fivehundred miles removed from my high school, I’d know that voice in my sleep.
I straighten, bracing for impact, because she’s right next to me. She smiles, her teeth white and gleaming behind raspberry lip gloss. Her perfume—something expensively floral—floods the table, drowning the scent of espresso. She’s in a cream cashmere wrap dress, gold jewelry light-catching and subtle, and hair like a sheet of sun. I feel myself shrink, fifteen again—the exact age when Hope started making my life miserable—and inferior in every way.
“Oh my god, I thought that was you!” She swats a hand at me. “Lizzie St. James, honestly, I could spot you anywhere.” She laughs, then does a double take at my friends. “Wow, you have, like, a whole girl gang now. Love this for you, babe.”
Charlotte arches a brow and mouths,Babe?,while Samantha gives her a look so flat Hope bounces right by it, undaunted.
I push my shoulders back, trying to muster my adult voice as I clear my throat and say, “Hope. Hi. Wow. It’s been so long. What are you doing in Ann Arbor?”
“I know, right?” She lifts her oat milk latte in salute, gold rings glittering. “I go to AAU now! Transferred this semester. Can you believe it? I mean, Michigan sucks, but at least the guys here are hot.”
Her catlike eyes rake across the room, landing on each one of the guys, then the girls, before returning to me with a practiced smile as she motions between us, “So, who’s who here? Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“Um . . .” I hesitate. Introducing Hope to my friends is the equivalent of inviting a soul-sucking vampire into your home—dangerous and stupid in about a thousand ways. In the silence, I can feel Little Liz emerging again, small and inferior, and easily intimidated.
“We’re friends,” Charlotte says, her tone flat.
“Best friends,” Brynn adds, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Lovely.” Hope beams. “And are these all your boyfriends or are we still playing the field?” Her gaze slides to me, then flickers to Samantha beside me, who doesn’t bother hiding her disgust.
I try to laugh, because Hope is every bit as abrasive as I remember, and my friends are getting a full show, but it catches in the back of my throat like a dry pill because I can’t believe this is happening to me again. I can’t believe she’s back, at the same school, at the same coffee shop, and in my presence. “They’re, uh, my friends’ boyfriends. We’re all just hanging out. We do that a lot,” I say, stumbling over my words. “Hang out, I mean.”
I want to close my eyes and berate myself for giving Hope the exact version of myself she expects; the insecure and bumbling one she knows so well.
Hope breaks out into a delighted cackle. “Damn, Lizzie, moving up in the world! I mean, no offense, but it’s honestly impressive. You used to be such a nerd and hated sports, but now you’re surrounded by jocks and in a whole quarterback harem.”
Avery snorts, unable to help herself as Damon squeezes her knee in solidarity while the other boys discuss plans for theweekend, blissfully oblivious to the wolf in sheep’s clothing in front of me.
“What about you? Are you here with someone?” Brynn asks, the edge in her voice sharp.
“Not yet.” Hope’s eyes glitter. “But this might be my lucky day because I’m utterly obsessed with the idea of being a WAG.” She leans in closer to me, voice dropping to a gossipy hush. “In truth, that’s why I picked AAU. I heard the team’s, like, obscenely hot this year.”
I blink. “A WAG?
Avery grunts before turning her attention to me. “It stands for Wives and Girlfriends. It’s a term used for women dating or married to high profile, professional athletes, particularly in the NFL.”
