“That one doesn’t even bother me as much as the birthday one,” I snap, lying through my teeth.
Honestly, they both fucking gutted me.
I can still see it now.
Esme all prettied up, singing happy birthday to my best friend.
“The way you made yourself up for him—sang to him.”
Her whole expression changes.
Confusion first.
Then dawning horror.
“What?” she says. “No—that wasn’t—oh my God! You’re wrong!”
She starts digging for her phone with shaking hands, nearly dropping her bag in the process.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Looking for it,” she mutters, panic rising. “I didn’t sing that song for him! That was your birthday gift. I-I sang it to you. I said your name, Benji. I made it for you,” she says, and it sounds like she’s pleading.
“What? No, I saw it.”
“No! What you saw was wrong. I made that video for you,” she says again, louder this time.
Like if she says it enough maybe it’ll rewrite the last three years.
She unlocks her phone, swipes, finds something, then shoves it at me.
“Look.”
I don’t want to take it.
I really, really don’t want to take it.
Because what if she’s lying and I look like an idiot?
And what if she’s not?
Still, I take the phone.
The clip starts.
Same angle.
Same lighting.
Same room.
Same her.
At first she sits there, then she angles the camera and smiles—so sweet and shy.
Her hair is glossy, hanging over one shoulder.
She’s wearing a sexy as fuck little nightie that hugs her curves, leaving little glimpses of plump flesh I happen to know is sweeter than candy.
