* * *
I spent a good half hour or so relaying the scene in Danielle Duke’s office, in detail, to my girlfriends, who’d demanded it. Though I left out Johnny’s whole part in it, for Shayla’s sake. They cringed in sympathy and rallied to comfort me as we sipped purple concoctions in fancy cocktail glasses, kindly provided by Merritt and my sister.
And then, of course, came the scene that started off this day from hell: the breakfast table breakup. I was less detailed about that one and way less keen to talk about it, and got it over with as quickly as possible.
“I’m telling you,” Shayla announced when I’d finished, “the good ones don’t break your heart like that.”
“I don’t believe that’s strictly true,” I choked out. “But I really don’t want to talk about him right now.”
“How bad was it?” Larissa asked gently. “Not talking about him, I promise.”
I groaned. “He was… very civil. You know Flynn.” Actually, he was extremely unemotional about the whole thing, but I didn’t want to talk about that, either. I’d put the man through enough emotional turmoil over the last three-and-a-half years, he deserved some peace. In other words, me out of his life.
Tears threatening…
I made a gross snuffly sound, choking back my misery with a cocktail napkin to my nose. “I’m okay, really,” I pronounced, as my friends eyed me with concern.
“You’re not,” Courteney observed. “But that’s okay.”
“How many times have you listened to Harry today?” Larissa asked knowingly.
And I admitted, “Too many to count.” Harry Styles’ epic ballad “Sign of the Times” was my crying song, and all my besties knew it; if I had that song on repeat, the situation was dire.
God, Flynn probably hated that song. He’d probably developed PTSD from hearing it play after every fight we had, and would be triggered every time he heard it for the rest of his life. But for me, that song was a healing balm.
“Oh, babe,” Shayla commiserated. “The LBS is here for you.”
I tried to smile.
The LBS was the “Lil Brat Society,” the tongue-in-cheek support group the four of us had formed together, many years back. When we all met, Shayla, Courteney, Larissa and I had quickly bonded over our similar lots in life: we all were little sisters to public figures in the music industry. I wasn’t the only one who lived in the shadow of my glamorous older sibling.
Thank God.
No one except these three girls knew exactly what that particular aspect of my life was like, and no other humans on the planet had ever been more unfailingly supportive of me.
“I know you don’t want to talk about him,” Courteney said. “But… I thought you two were working on it?”
“We have been. For a while. It’s… not working.”
“Angie, I’m so sorry,” Larissa said. “I know you love him.”
“Yeah, well. The feeling is not mutual anymore.”
“Sweetie.” Courteney got up and came around the table to hug me.
I bit back the swell of emotion and the tears that threatened, again. I’d cried enough today, for fuck’s sake. “Thank you.”
“Tell us what you need.”
“Nothing, I promise. I’ll be okay.”
Courteney eased back into her seat, looking doubtful. Actually, they all looked pretty doubtful. “What are you gonna do?” she asked sympathetically. “Like, where are you gonna go? Back to your parents’ place?”
“No. Uh-uh. That’s just too sad. I’m way too old for that.”
“Hey, no one’s too old to run back to their parents for love and recovery when they’ve been wounded,” Shayla said. “It’s human. It’s what we do.”
“Just be glad you have parents to run back to,” Courteney said, and I knew what she meant. My parents were awesome. I’d just feel like such a loser crawling back to them. I was twenty-seven, almost twenty-eight. Way closer to thirty than twenty. Wasn’t I supposed to be self-sufficient by now?
