“She’s not you.”
“Lucky her.”
“Mar—”
“I don’t want to talk about Chicago.” I set the ice cream aside, suddenly nauseated by the sweetness. “I don’t want to talk about the wedding, or the expansion, or—” My voice caught, betraying me just like everything else in my life. “Or him.”
Anica’s expression softened. “Okay. No Chicago talk.” She paused. “But there is something you should know. It’s about?—”
“The app,” I finished, already knowing from her tone. After the first twenty-four hours of sobbing, I’d finally strung together enough sentences to tell Anica about my app. She’d been very graceful about the fact that I hadn’t told her first. “He’s doing it, isn’t he?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Modern Wedding announced yesterday. Hudson’s been named creative director of their new digital platform. It’s being described as ‘revolutionary’ and ‘the future of wedding planning.’”
“I expected it.” The words came out flat, like I was commenting on the weather rather than the theft of my work. “Good for him.”
“Good for—? Mari, he stole your idea! We should be talking to lawyers, filing cease and desist orders, not congratulating the thieving bastard!” Anica’s indignation burned bright enough for both of us. “Cal knows people who specialize in tech patents. His connections could?—”
“We aren’t having this argument again. What’s even the point?” I cut her off, exhausted by the mere thought of fighting. “It’s my word against his. I never filed any patents. I never registered anything. And now he’s got Modern Wedding backing him.”
“But we have proof. Your sketches, your notes?—”
“I deleted them.”
“You what?”
I shrugged. “Two nights ago. Deleted all the files. Tossed the notebooks. Set fire to the sketches in the bathroom sink. Very cathartic. I highly recommend it.”
“Mar, no.” Anica looked horrified. “Why would you do that?”
“Because every time I looked at them, I saw him.” My voice cracked. “Every page, every sketch, every note—it all reminded me of how completely he played me. How embarrassingly easy it was to make me believe in... us.”
“That doesn’t mean you should just give up. This app was your baby.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m not cut out to be a mother.” I attempted a smile, but it felt wrong on my face, like someone had drawn it on with a Sharpie. “If he wants it that badly, he can have it. I don’t care anymore.”
Anica stared at me for a long moment. “Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend? The Mari I know would plot elaborate revenge, not roll over and give up.”
“Maybe that Mari was just a front.” I pulled my knees to my chest. “Maybe I was never actually good enough or smart enough to pull off something like the app. Maybe I’ve been fooling myself all along.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
“Is it? I thought I was so clever, so talented. I thought Hudson and I had something real. I trusted my judgment, and look where that got me.”
“One asshole doesn’t invalidate your entire life.”
“Doesn’t it, though?” I laughed, the sound brittle.
Before Anica could respond, my phone buzzed on the coffee table. I glanced at it, expecting another concerned text from Callan or maybe Devonna with a question about a client.
Instead, my mother’s name flashed on the screen.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered. “It’s like she has a radar for when I’m at my absolute lowest. ‘Oh, Mari’s miserable? Let me call and make it worse.’”
“You don’t have to answer,” Anica said.
But I was already reaching for the phone, some masochistic part of me curious about what fresh criticism my mother might have in store.
“Hello?”
