“Well, big fail.” Paul sneers.
“It wouldn’t have been a failure if you hadn’t panicked over your phone rather than Fran’s safety,” I say.
“That’s a bit immature,” Paul says.
I clench my hand into a fist. “To worry more for your phone than a person? I agree, very immature.”
Paul scoffs out a laugh. “Of the two of us, I’m the one who’s saved her life.”
“It was a silly remake. And it clearly didn’t work,” Fran says, attempting to intervene. “I just like recreating moments from romance movies. It’s kind of my thing. It’s goofy, but fun. You’d be surprised how much a remake can tell you about a person.”
“That tells me a lot about you, Fran. So childish.” Paul has no filter, no worry for anyone else. Did he save Fran that day to save her—or for the privilege of bragging about hisown actions? Because at this point, I’m not sure the man cares for anyone but himself.
“Because she believes in hope and love and creating joy,” Rosalie says. She stands, a fist forming at her side. I know just how protective the girl can be. Paul had better watch it.
“I didn’t find any of that joyful.”
I step in front of Rosalie, attempting to keep Fran’s bestie out of trouble. “She was just trying to create an unforgettable experience,” I say. “She’s being proactive about creating memories. What’s wrong with that? And I think she’s right, because that little scene told us a whole lot about you, Paul.”
Twenty-Two
Rosalie pushesthe coffee table out of the way and stretches out on the floor of our apartment, right next to where I lay. It was a long ride home. A long, quiet ride with an unhappy Paul in the back and a seething Rosalie up front. I drove and sang along to the radio, ignoring them both.
“I’m afraid you’ll get so caught up in recreating a moment that you won’t remember who it is you actually want to make memories with.”
“I don’t knowwhoI actually like,” I tell Rosalie. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
She sighs, and it sounds a little like a baby moose crying for its mother. “Youdotoo know who you like. We both know who you like.”
“Well… I now know that I do not care for Paul anymore. Is that what you mean?”
“No.” Another moose honk escapes her lips. “You like Callum. Stop denying it.”
“Of course I like Cal. He’s my friend.” And I’m pretty sure he’s hung up on his ex. So, Ican’tlike Callum. Thatcombination does not lead to a happy ending. “We are just friends.”
“Fran. You are hopeless. You know that, right?”
Rolling onto my side, I prop my head in one hand, resting on my elbow. “I do not know that. I am full of hope.”
“You are. And I love that about you. But let’s try self-reflection and a little honesty. Because you do like Cal.”
Ughhh. Confession time. “I think Callum is still hung up on his ex. I’m nothing like her. He isn’t going to like me that way.”
“I disagree. He might,” Rosalie says. She reaches out a hand and shakes my arm. “Tell me how it felt when Callum kissed you again?”
My insides turn to gravy—warm, buttery, wrap-you-up-in-a-hug gravy. I like gravy—okay? “It was…nice.”
“It was much more than nice. If I remember right, you called it the best kiss of your life, and said something about Thanksgiving dinner.”
I do spend an obscene amount of time replaying both of our kisses in my head. And yet, I say, “I don’t even think about it anymore.”
“Liar.” She knows me too well.
“Either way, I’m a girl who respects others. And I think Callum likes someone else.”
“Someone he hasn’t talked to in weeks.”
I lick my lips. “Yeah, and she broke up with him. She must not be very smart. Did you happen to?—”
