I want to argue. Want to tell him that I don’t need to be “seen with someone,” that my brand is fine, that the only person I want to have dinner with is currently asleep in my guest roomand definitely not a professional influencer with half a million followers.
But the words are stuck because we’re just friends.
Also, what if he’s right? After such a crushing loss in Denver, what if my career does need this? What if turning him down means losing endorsements, opportunities, and the security I’ve worked so hard for?
Me: Fine, but this is the last time.
Whitaker: That’s my guy. You won’t regret this.
Me: I already regret it.
If it’s not with April, I don’t want to go.
But I also don’t want to let Whitaker down. Or my team. Or my career.
Where do I belong?
With April.
So why does it feel like I’m about to make a huge mistake?
9
APRIL
I’m sittingon my couch, mainlining my evening coffee and minding my own business while scrolling through social media, when I lean back against one of the throw pillows, promptly reminding me of Clark’s bed covered in them, then hear a faintsqueak.
I freeze.
That was not the normal sound a couch makes. That was the sound of a—squeak.Squeak.
“What in the world?”
I pull the cushion away and wedged into the back of my couch is a tiny rubber squeaky toy shaped like a hot dog.
FYI: Despite a deep yearning to have a dog, unfortunately, I do not and the boys rarely come here because my building has a strict no pets policy. This could only mean one thing.
Clark.
It had to be Clark.
It’s always Clark.Always will be.
A long-suffering sigh escapes, but I’m smiling because I’m not ready to say goodbye when he marries Pammy or Posh—thelatter being his latest conquest. Regrettably, I did some emotional rubbernecking, seeing evidence of their date all over the internet. I know better, but look anyway—snared by equal amounts of jealousy and hope.
I’m about to text him a very strongly worded message about boundaries and personal property when I remember that today is April first. April Fool’s Day. And Clark Culpepper thinks he’s hilarious.
I shake my head, fighting a smile. Fine. He got me.
He’ll always have me.
After finishing my coffee, I slip on my house shoes so I can grab the mail. With my first step, I hear another squeak.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
I pull off the slipper and sure enough, a miniature squeaky hamburger is jammed in the toe.
“Clark!” I yell at my empty apartment, even though he’s not here to hear it.
