Bryce:But I’d like you there.
I stop breathing for a second.
Another text appears.
Bryce:If you’re avoiding me, just tell me.
My pride sits up like an offended cat.
I type before common sense catches up.
Me:I’m not avoiding you.
Three dots.
They blink.
And blink.
Bryce:Then come.
My stomach does a full gymnastics routine.
From the couch, Shari yells, “Why are you standing in the doorway like a ghost? Did a bill collector text you?”
I swallow hard. “Worse.”
She appears in the hall two seconds later. “Show me.”
I hold out my phone.
She reads.
Her eyes go huge. “Oh my God. Yes! We are going.”
“I don’t know.”
“C’mon, Annabelle. Let’s go. It’ll be fun!”
She is already marching toward my bedroom. “You have a sparkly dress, right? Or something with cleavage? Please say you own something with cleavage.”
“Shari…”
“You can either spiral on your couch about the office couch scene,” she calls back, “or you can put on lipstick and make a professional appearance at a fancy party where your hot disaster man just asked you to show up.”
“He is not my man,” I protest.
“Sure,” she says. “Tell that to your face.”
She flings open my closet and starts humming dramatically.
“We are going,” she declares. “Get ready. Put on something sexy, like this dress. I’m going home to get ready and I’ll pick you up at 7:00.”
“What about the lasagna?”
“I’ll put it in the fridge and we’ll have it tomorrow.”
My heart pounds.
