“So.” She takes a delicate sip of her orange juice like she’s not about to interrogate me. “You gonna tell me what the hell is going on with you, or do I have to keep guessing?”
I blink. “Define ‘going on.’”
She points her fork at me. “Don’t play cute. You’ve been off. Not just post-Chloe-off—worse. Broody. Distracted. And now you’re making shirts for some girl.”
My jaw tightens. “I should’ve never shown you, or asked for your opinion because you’re never gonna let that shit go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.” She levels a glare. “Is that what’s got you all you twisted? Did you make the shirt for Rorie Adams? The woman you had me investigate.”
“Investigate it a tad over the top.”
Her glare hardens. I hesitate. Sip my coffee. If we were in a movie, this would be about the time the tumbleweeds breeze between our standoff.
Tammy pounces. “Holy shit. It’s Rorie, isn’t it?”
“No.” I set the mug down. “The shirt was someone else.”
Her brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
I exhale, rub the back of my neck. “Okay. There’s this… person. I accidentally texted her by mistake the night of the Chloe Catastrophe. Wrong number. She responded. We kept talking.”
Tammy sets down her fork. She’s locked in now. “And?”
“And nothing. We text. It’s… fun. Easy. She’s smart. Keeps me in check.”
“And Rorie?”
My silence answers her.
Tammy shakes her head. “Two women. One you’re professionally pitted against, and the other you’ve never met in person?”
I groan. “Perfect. It sounds like a dating app horror story.”
“Itsoundslike you're a man in need of therapy and a whiteboard.”
“Mystery Texter’s just a friend. And Rorie?” I pause. “Well, she’s the splinter in my dick I can’t tweeze out. Sharp, buried deep, and somehow flares up when I least expect it.”
“First off, gross.” Tammy squints. “Secondly, is that a metaphor for feelings or a spicy medical condition?”
I groan. “I don’t know what it is. All I know is she’s under my skin. And in my head.”
Tammy’s quiet for a beat. She reaches over, grabs my toast, and takes a bite. I give her a look
“You’re a disaster,” she says, crumbs in her voice.
“You worried about me?”
“I’m always worried about you, you idiot.” She waves a hand. “You spent a year trying to be someone you weren’t for Chloe. Now you’re finally showing your real self—and if that girl sees it too? Let her.”
I blink at her. “That was… almost sweet.”
She shrugs. “Don’t get used to it. I’m still stealing your toast.”
“Don’t be worried.” I stab a piece of egg, but don’t eat it yet.
“Don’t get murdered,” she replies. “Who knows who your mystery texter really is? You know?”
“It’s not like that with either of them. I’m not trying to fall in love. I’m just trying to figure out which version of myself I’m supposed to be now. And they both get different pieces of me. But they both make me feel like I’m not completely crumbling.”
