“Don’t make yourself small to fit into a small man’s world. You let that turd choke on your greatness.”
I laugh and nod. “I want to be a career woman. But sometimes I look at life and wonder if I want a family instead.”
She tilts her head. “Why can’t you have both?”
“I watched my dad not be able to have both. And my mom chose neither,” I remind her.
“That was their choice. And you aren’t either of them. You might share DNA, but you’re your own person. And thank God for that.”
I snort at her candor.
Birdie grows serious. “Any chance this doesn’t have to be fake?”
I shake my head. “We just met. He’s helping me. That’s it. Like you said...he’s a good guy.”
She hums, unconvinced. “That’s not what it looks like.”
“This is temporary. And strategic. We have a solid plan.”
Birdie grins. “I’ve seen a lot of things, sugar. I can tell when two people are pretending and when they’re real.”
I don’t answer. Because the fact is, everything is blurred now. I’m questioning everything. And it’s got me so anxious.
She pats my arm, gentle and reassuring. “Just be careful with each other. Soft hearts bruise easily.”
I nod, even though I have a feeling that broken hearts are inevitable in this case.
Later on, I’m at the Seashell Diner with Summer. She’s venting about her stepbrother, Dayton. We order coffee, and I get a sugar-free banana-nut blondie with a caramel drizzle. Her matcha was good the other day, but I’m more of a coffee lover.
“Okay, girl. What’s up with the sugar-free? Why is everyone ordering sugar-free these days?” she demands, looking offended.
I chuckle and shrug. “I don’t know, actually. I just started getting this back in New York, and I like it.”
Summer’s on a tangent right now. Dayton has her in a mood. He’s been keeping her from making the updates to her parents’ house she wants to make. I know it’s not necessarily about sugar-free coffee. But I let her rant.
“Why does everyone hate sugar?” she complains.
“I don’t hate sugar. I’m a big fan,” I tell her.
“Who stood by everyone when they were sad? Not lettuce, that’s for sure. It was sugar. Sugar!”
I pat her shoulder. “I know.”
“I just want my mural. And my painted tiles. Why is Dayton ruining that for me?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I think it’s going to be beautiful.”
“And why doeshehate sugar?” she bites out.
And there it is.
“He’s a psychopath,” I tell her.
“Exactly,” she agrees.
“Want to go do some yoga? Will that make you feel better?” I ask her.
“Yeah,” she says softly, sipping her matcha.
