Penny
Idon’t usually do this—put myself first instead of doing what’s expected of me.
But today, I did. And honestly, it feels fucking fantastic.
I turned off my alarm last night and let the sun peeking through my curtains wake me up. Instead of checking my phone before getting out of bed, I meditated and stretched, thentook a long shower.
Then I texted Easton to see if he was free for our lunch date today.
Now I’m waiting for him at Layers, one of the restaurants inside the country club our families have belonged to for generations. It’s considered the “casual” spot around here.
I practically grew up eating lunch with my friends at these tables while our moms disappeared into the president’s room for something a little more exclusive.
I haven’t been here in ages, and now that I’m seeing it with more mature eyes, I’m confused. There’s nothing casual about this place. The tables and chairs are made of mahogany. The cushions are plush, in mint green and burgundy. Two candle chandeliers hang from the exposed beams of the ceiling.
“I’m sorry for my tardiness. I hope I didn’t make you wait too long,” Easton greets me, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“No worries, I was just taking a trip down memory lane,” I say with a smile.
“Anything I might remember too?” he asks, taking a seat across from me.
“I was just thinking about the lunches I used to have here with my girlfriends when we were growing up.”
An image of the vipers I once called friends flashes through my mind. God, teenagers can be brutal. Like the time Mindy Cox convinced me Preston Moriarty—the hottest guy at the club—was secretly into me, but too shy to make the first move.
I was the laughingstock of the club for weeks.
The bartender comes over to take our order, and Easton asks for a few more minutes to look at the menu.
“This might make me sound like a loser, but I was stoked when I got your text. When I saw you Friday, you made it seem like it’d be a while before we could meet up,” Easton says, adjusting the napkin on his lap.
“Yeah, well,” I say, shrugging lightly. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’m busy. But today I had a chance to focus on some personal stuff, so I figured I’d see if you were free.”
I catch a flicker of excitement in his eyes before it disappears.
“Well, I’m grateful we can spend time together.” His gaze lingers on my lips, and my smile falters.
What is going on?
Easton and I have always been buddies—no romantic feelings. Ever.
He passes his hand through his hair as he leans back on the chair, taking in the restaurant. He’s so effortlessly glamorous, a sharp contrast to Miles's more unpolished moves.
Am I misreading the situation?
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. We just haven’t seen each other in so long—I forgot how gorgeous you are,” he says.
Ay. That’s different.
Easton leans back in his chair like he was born to be here. Like upscale restaurants and overpriced cocktails are justanother Tuesday night to him. His suit jacket is perfectly tailored, his expensive watch peeking out every time he lifts his drink.
He flashes the waiter an easy smile, thanks him when our drinks arrive, and somehow manages to put everyone around him at ease without even trying.
What the hell is going on with him? This is not how I remember our friendship.
Yes, we were inseparable growing up. We did everything together—listening to pop albums on repeat, helping me hide posters under my bed because Mami refused to let me hang cute guys on my walls, sneaking into frat parties before we were old enough to be there.
We had it good back then—no awkwardness, no second-guessing what we meant to each other. Just two friends showing up for each other through everything.
