Page 5

“Can I come in?” she asks, not giving me a chance to respond before brushing past me.

“Of course,” I answer, even though she’s already removed her designer shoes—which are now unceremoniously tossed onto the white marble floor of the entryway.

I close the door behind us and cross my arms over my chest. “What’s wrong?”

Molly removes her coat and actually takes the time to hang it on a peg, her tiny five-foot-four frame having to stand on her tiptoes to reach it. She plows past me again, straight toward the kitchen without sparing me another glance.

I look after her, still wondering why she’s upset. She looks gorgeous … she always does. But her face is smudged with mascara and her hair is mussed like she tried to yank it all out. She’s like a really cute raccoon with designer shoes.

“Do you have ice cream?” she asks, sparing a glance at me over her shoulder.

“Yep,” I answer, following her into the large chef’s kitchen … a kitchen that’s wasted on me since it’s only used to store take-out. “Mint chocolate chip,” I add, because that’s her favorite flavor, and I always keep some on hand.

She doesn’t smile, but walks straight to the freezer, pulls out the carton, then moves toward the drawer that holds the silverware. She stares into the drawer for a second, before changing her mind and opening the drawer next to it instead. Molly selects a large wooden spoon and heads into the living room.

I chase after her and reach her just as she pulls a big fluffy blanket off the couch and wraps herself up in it before sitting down, still holding the ice cream to her chest.

The look of anger in her face is gone now, replaced with the shine of tears. All I want to do is pull her into my arms and wipe her tears away.

Molly opens the ice cream and hands me the lid without so much as looking at me. Then she dips her spoon in and starts devouring it, still managing to look pretty somehow with her round eyes, perfect lips—pouty on the bottom, cupid's bow on top—shiny, dark hair twisted up into a sleek updo, and wearing a dress even my particular mother would be jealous of.

It irks me not knowing how to help. All I can do is wait for her to speak.

I hate when she’s upset … but there’s something nice about knowing I’m the only one she feels comfortable letting her hair down with—figuratively speaking, of course. Molly’s hair is always perfectly styled. No crunches in sight, or whatever those things from the eighties are called. That loser Todd probably hasn’t even seen her like this. He’s the kind of self-entitled prick who’d want his girlfriend to stay prim and proper all the time. And he’s so scrawny, there’s no way he keeps his freezer stocked with emotional support ice cream. Honestly, some ice cream might help him bulk up a bit.

I wait until she reaches the bottom of the ice cream container—and not one of those measly little pints, but a half gallon one—before asking her again what’s wrong. With a heavy sigh she begins, her voice still a little shaky.

“Todd was supposed to take me out tonight. So I went to his house—”

I hold my hand up to stop her. Already feeling irate. “He couldn’t even pick you up for your date?” My voice comes out louder than I wanted it to.

“Would you just let me finish?”

Forcing myself to relax, I fold my hands together and close my eyes for a second. “Sorry. Continue.”

Molly rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I didn't even make it to his front door, before I saw a note from another woman on his car. Signed with a lipstick kiss.”

One of my eyebrows raises slightly, the kind of eyebrow action that silently says I'm going to murder him. Realizing what my face is doing, I relax my expression real quick. But she looks concerned, so she definitely noticed the eyebrow.

Her shoulders relax slightly when my eyebrow calms down, and she continues her story. “And he also forgot about our date, and was setting up a poetry night for his friends.”

Despite the burning rage I feel, I work my very hardest to nod sympathetically and just listen to her.

“So, I broke up with him.”

She stares at me, waiting for my response. My left eye twitches with barely suppressed rage. When I saw him a few months ago at dinner with a blonde, I was hoping it was purely innocent. I’ve never liked the guy, but for Molly’s sake, I hoped he wasn’t capable of being this vile of a human.

Molly and Todd have broken up several times over the years. Normally, it’s over forgotten dates, or Todd ignoring her because he’s having a bad day. A few times he’s completely missed her birthday. They stay broken up for a few days, and then things will be good with them for a few months. He’ll be attentive and sweet, romantic even. Once he’s sure she’s going to stick around, he slips and goes back to his same old ways.

How someone could have a brilliant woman like Molly and not worship the ground she walks on is a mystery to me. And every time he hurts her, I have to refrain myself from bashing his face in. Right now, all I want to do is go over to Todd’s, interrupt his “poetry night,” and give him a bloody lip. But that’ll just get me thrown in prison, and I’m way too pretty to go to prison.

And why does she keep giving him chances? Here’s this amazing woman who’s insanely smart and a total knock-out, but she can’t see it for herself. She deserves so much better than Todd. And she should never settle for less than she deserves.

Have I tried convincing her not to take him back? That he’s all wrong for her? Of course.

But she and Todd have known each other since childhood. Their mothers are best friends … and I know her mom puts a lot of pressure on her to be with him. Why she’d want her to stay with such a tool is beyond my comprehension.

Molly blows her nose rather ungracefully, interrupting my thoughts and dragging me back into the present. “I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “And I’m not letting you go over there and beat him up. You’re not cut out for prison.”