. . .
Jess
“Let me get this straight,”Brandon says, leaning against my kitchen counter with an expression of pure disbelief. “You…are now…Mrs. Jessica Carmichael?”
I flip him off without looking up from the box I’m packing. “Don’t call me that.”
“Which part? Jessica or Mrs. Carmichael?” Brandon’s grin is infuriating. As a stuntman, he’s built to take physical punishment, which is the only reason I haven’t thrown something at him yet.
“Both. Either. And it’s Lexington-Carmichael.” I shove books into the box with more force than necessary. “Are you going to help or just provide color commentary?”
“Definitely commentary,” he says, helping himself to a beer from my fridge. “This is premium entertainment.”
My apartment has become command central for what Blair is secretly calling “Operation Marriage Plot.” After three days of shuttling between here and Lucas’s place for Dylan’s filming schedule, I realized I needed toactually move in to maintain the illusion. This is why Blair, Brandon, and Stella are allegedlyhelping me pack, though they’re mostly interrogating me about my sudden marital status.
Brandon, my across-the-hall-neighbor-turned-accidental-best-friend, is lounging on the couch with a half-eaten bag of pretzels. As a stuntman, he’s one of those guys you’ve seen in a hundred action movies but wouldn’t recognize on the street, and he’s also possibly the chillest person I’ve ever met. He helped me carry up a broken bookshelf three years ago, and now he has a permanent spot in my life.
Stella, on the other hand, is delicately wrapping a framed photo in bubble wrap like it’s one of the crown jewels. She’s the youngest of us, all soft edges and sunshine. She started out as Blair’s intern at The Wynn Agency and followed Blair when she opened up her own agency, Tangerine Talent. Somehow, she’s become everyone’s little sister. Technically, she lives on the other side of the complex, but she’s always at my or Brandon’s apartment, usually with snacks and support.
“I still can’t believe it,” Stella says, squinting at the photo before adding more wrap. “Isn’t this the same Lucas you once described as having the emotional depth of a spoon?”
Blair snorts. “Or the one she called the human equivalent of an email that starts with ‘Per my last note.’”
“My personal favorite,” Brandon adds, “was when she said his press statements were so sanitized they could be used as disinfectant.”
“Or when she signed him up forManifesting for Men,” Blair adds. “That was inspired.”
Stella gasps. “Did you really?”
“I also sent him a digital subscription toGoat YogaMonthly,” I mutter. “Are you guys keeping a catalog of every insult I’ve ever used?” I ask, exasperated.
“Only the really creative ones,” Blair says, patting my shoulder. “It’s just, you have to admit, this is a complete one-eighty from everything you’ve ever said about him.”
I take a deep breath. This is the hardest part, lying to my friends. I glance at Blair; she’s the only one who knows the truth.
Journalism is about truth; it’s what I’ve built my career and reputation on. But here I am, constructing an elaborate fiction for the people closest to me.
“Sometimes, the line between hate and not-hate is thinner than you’d think,” I say carefully.
Brandon raises an eyebrow. “And that line just disappeared in Vegas?”
“When you know, you know,” I offer weakly.
“Bullshit,” Brandon coughs into his fist.
I throw a pillow at him. “No one asked you, Grimaldi.”
“Hey, I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.” He catches the pillow effortlessly. “The Jess I know would never marry her nemesis.”
He’s right, of course. Brandon has lived across the hall from me for three years. He’s been witness to my rants about Lucas.
“Well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think,” I retort, but my words lack conviction.
Stella, ever the peacemaker, intervenes. “Whatever the reason, we support you. Right, guys?”
“Always,” Blair agrees immediately. “Even when you marry the ‘enemy.’”
“He’s not the enemy,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I mean it. “He’s just on the other side of the professional fence.”
