“Don’t you think the pillows look nice?” Hornsby asks, harping on the goddamn pillows a touch too much.
“I think they look great,” Pacey says, clearly trying to be the super positive one. “Best pillows I’ve ever seen.”
“Where did you get them?” Posey asks. “Target?”
“Target?” Hornsby scoffs. “These are West Elm quality.”
“Target has great quality pillows, you jackass,” Posey replies.
“I don’t think we’re here to talk about the pillows, remember?” Pacey says, giving them both looks.
“Oh . . . right,” Hornsby says. “Uh . . . how’s life?”
Jesus Christ. I pinch my brow, irritated that I must deal with this.
“You okay?” Holmes asks, the more levelheaded and quieter one of the group.
“I’m fine. I actually—”
Knock. Knock.
The guys all pause, and with confused looks in their eyes, they glance over at the door.
Shit.
Using his finger, Posey counts us, making sure we’re all here. Hornsby sits taller, staring at the door as if he has X-ray vision, and Pacey fluffs the pillow next to him while whispering, “Who’s that?”
“Uh . . .” I say, unsure of how to respond. They all turn to me, looking for an answer, and I don’t know what to say. Their stares and confused expressions shift to anger, which causes my back to break out in sweat.
“If you tell me that’s Sarah, I’m going to have a fucking conniption,” Hornsby says.
“Oh shit, I didn’t even think about that,” Posey says. “Tates, that can’t be Sarah.”
“Dude, is it Sarah?” Pacey asks, his fist clenching at his side.
“No,” I answer, exasperated.
“Then answer it,” Hornsby challenges.
“No need. I can,” Pacey says, moving right past me and toward the door.
“Wait,” I call out, but it’s too late. He opens the door, revealing Ollie standing on the other side. Long brown hair tied up into a tight pony on the top of her head, she has minimal makeup on her face and is sporting a pair of leggings and a plain black V-neck T-shirt.
“Oh, is this the wrong apartment?” she asks, looking confused.
“Who are you looking for?” Pacey asks.
“Me,” I call out, knowing there’s no use telling her to run for her life. “Let her in, Pacey.”
A collective quiet hangs over the room as Pacey moves to the side and Ollie steps into my apartment, her hands clutching the thin straps of her mini backpack.
“Uh . . . hi,” she says with a cute wave. “I didn’t think you would, uh, have company.”
“I wasn’t expecting them as well.”
Looking more confused than ever, Pacey says, “Who’s this?”
Well, this is what I wanted, right? To tell my boys that I’m seeing someone so they don’t assume I’m lonely and barge into my apartment with pizza and beer. Or fret over me getting back together with Sarah. This is the moment . . .
