And so, for some inexplicable reason, I allow her to grab the top from her bedroom and wrestle it over my head. She yanks it down into place, smoothing it just so. The material is red and sparkly, all shiny sequins and bows. Not something I’d ever buy in a million years, but I’ll admit it shows off my toned abs nicely.
“What you have to understand, Ally, is that life is like a rom-com,” she explains, turning me around so she can button up the back of the top. “Like that movieMy Best Friend’s Wedding.Remember the part where Julia Roberts compares men’s taste in women to desserts?—”
“You know I hate rom-coms?—”
“Just hush and listen,” she orders, grabbing the only skirt I own from my closet—black vegan leather—and tossing it at me to put on. “Say you’re Hayes. You’re in a fancy restaurant ordering dessert. You want something special, so you order crème brûlée. It’s beautiful. Sweet. Perfect. You don’t order boring, plain ol’ Jell-O.”
“Let me guess. I’m the Jell-O in this metaphor?” I ask dryly, zipping up the skirt. “And you’re crème brûlée? The dessert everyone wants?”
“Exactly!” She nods along. “That’s why Dermot Mulroney passes on uptight Julia Roberts—the best friend who’s secretly in love with him—andmarries blonde, bubbly Cameron Diaz. She’s the crème brûlée.” She smiles brightly. “Like me.”
I snort, rolling my eyes.
“First off, pretty sure I should be offended. But also? I like Jell-O. So whatever.” I tug the skirt down a notch so it’s not too short and check the laces on my boots. “But more importantly, I don’t care what dessert Hayes picks because, for the millionth time, I’m not into Hayes.”
Okay… maybe that’s a little white lie.
But it’s necessary.
Even if my feelings for Hayes blur the line between platonic and something else, I’m certainly not going to admit that to Amber. She’s the last person on Earth I’d tell.
Well—second to last. Hayes still takes the crown there.
“Good,” she says, flipping her hair. “Because Hayes is mine.”
I open my mouth to argue, because Hayes isn’t a purse or a pair of shoes she can slap a claim on. He’s a person. A complex, thinking, feeling human being.
But then I stop myself, because as much as I might want to say it, it’s not really my place. Hayes may have been mine first. I was his friend when no one else wanted to be. Even Amber used to make fun of him behind his back when we were little, just like everyone else. She didn’t really notice him until his glow-up and the rest of the world suddenly decided he was worth paying attention to.
Still, that doesn’t entitle me to anything. I don’town him. I don’t get to dictate who he dates. If Amber genuinely loves him—and he loves her back—then their relationship isn’t any of my business. Wanting him for myself probably crosses a line I have no business even toeing.
“Ambs?” I glance at her, my voice quieter now. “What do you actually like about Hayes?”
She blinks, taken aback.
“What kind of question is that?”
“You could have any guy you want—why him?”
She shrugs, not even taking a moment to think about it.
“He’s hot. I’m hot. We’re easily the best-looking couple in Laguna Hills. People stare when we walk into a room, like we’re famous or something. It’s a rush, being that girl everyone wants to be.” She smiles at me like it’s all so obvious. “Who wouldn’t want that?”
My eyes drop down to Hayes’s old jersey now lying crumpled on the floor where Amber discarded it. Soft from years of wear. Frayed at the collar. It’s been mine since ninth grade, when he handed it to me at football practice because he saw me shivering in the bleachers.
I never gave it back.
Not because it made me feel important to wear the star quarterback’s jersey, but because it made me feelseen. In the middle of a touchdown play, Hayes saw me,and somehow noticed I was freezing in the stands.
He always notices me.
Amber wants the spotlight. But me?
I want the person who sees me when no one else does. I just wanthim.
I want the awkward, lanky boy from junior high who got nosebleeds during dodgeball and stayed up all night helping me build a papier-mâché volcano for the science fair. I want the boy from before the model jawline, before the abs, before everyone else started noticing him, too. And I’d still love him even if he were invisible, even if he wore a paper bag on his head and worked the drive-thru at Taco Bell.
“Anyway”—Amber adjusts the straps on her dress—“just stay in your lane, okay? I don’t need some ‘plot twist’ where you embarrass yourself trying to steal him from me. Got it, Jell-O?”
