Page 36 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

“Yes,” I say as I unwrap the red-and-white mint Jett hands me. He steals them by the handful from the candy bowls at the Castle, so his pockets are always full. Kind of exactly like my grandmother. I pop the mint in my mouth. “Wait, no. Rain check. I’ve got to get home soon and talk to my mom.”

I need her to un-ground me so I can train at Layla’s this week. And I’d like to ask her why she’s not been paying the mortgage.

“Okay,” says Jett, shrugging. “Text me if you want to talk about your documentary later.”

“Will do. And thanks for taking care of me last night.” I offer him my most grateful smile. “You’re seriously the best guy a girl could have.”

“Best guy friend,” he corrects gently. He offers me another mint and then he’s out the door.

There it is. The sound of me being put solidly and forever in the friend zone.

Outside, his motorcycle roars to life. I peek out the curtains as Jett races down the driveway. A little bit of my barf and a huge piece of my heart goes with him.

WHEN I FINALLY STUMBLE INTO THE HOUSE, LAYLA’S MADE COFFEE and is sitting at the breakfast nook table with her laptop open.

“You’re up to over three hundred thousand views in two days,” she says in lieu of a greeting.

“Are you serious?” I plop down into one of the fancy ergonomic chairs and try not to stare at the sun streaming in through the bay windows.

“Dead serious. Do you know how big a deal that is?” Layla dips a piece of bagel into her coffee and pops it into her mouth. She swings the screen around and points to the comments.

I read a few and then shrug, too tired and hungover to process them right now. My breath’s better thanks to the breath mint, but everything else still hurts. I unscrew the lid from a bottle of French vanilla creamer and take a long swig from it. It goes down sickly sweet, but since there’s not a bathtub of frosting to drown myself in, this will have to work.

“Gross,” says Layla, taking the creamer away and pushing black coffee and a piece of whole wheat toast toward me. “Eat that.”

“Where’s your pink-haired friend?”

“Maura? She left right after you and Jett went to bed.” Layla waggles her eyebrows at me, as if that will make details of my night emerge from my mouth.

I refuse to take the bait. “Are you going to see her again?”

“Maybe. We had fun,” she says. “But it’s not serious.”

“Jett knows all about that.”

“Uh-oh,” says Layla. She closes her computer. “That bad?”

“He told me he’s not into Serving Wenches. Which I’m taking worse than I thought I would.” I slurp some black coffee and nibble a bite of toast.

“He’ll come around,” she says. “You feeling okay about phases one and two?”

“I’m not feeling good about anything right now. Maybe once my brain stops ping-ponging around my skull, I’ll be capable of opinions again.”

“Poor baby drinker,” murmurs Layla. She gets an ice pack out of the freezer and plops it on the top of my head. After I finish my coffee and drink a bunch of water, she turns on the TV. I curl up on the couch beside her with a mumbled “Thank you.”

I don’t wake up until she nudges me. My head’s resting on a plump, satiny pillow, and there’s a line of drool soaked into it.

Ugh. I’m awesome.

“It’s three p.m.,” says Layla. She’s dressed in her work clothes. “I texted your mom earlier, pretending to be you, and told her we were still doing homework and you’d get a ride home with me. But she pretty much yelled at me through the phone. So, I think you better get home now.”

“You are the best. Friend. Ever. What do you see in me?”

Layla laughs. “Get moving, Wench.”

“I love you too.”

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