“Okay, but try to get some sleep,” I said. “Even a couple of hours would do you good.”

She shook her head. “I don’t have time to sleep. I have so much left to do. But you’re welcome to crash here if you want….”

The offer was so tempting. I was tired and had a long walk back to my place, but mostly, I just wasn’t ready to leave her. I hesitated, wavering, then said, “I probably shouldn’t. Someone might see me leaving in the morning—”

“True,” she quickly said, nodding.

I looked into her eyes, then leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “Good luck, Summer.”

“Thank you, Tyson.”

She gave me a tight-lipped smile, then returned to her desk, where she sat, studying her index cards. I watched her for a few seconds, then quietly slipped out the door.

That was the last time I ever saw Summer.

Chapter 4

Hannah

Tyson once likened Lainey to the next-door neighbor on a sitcom. The friend who pops over, providing a dose of comedic relief in every episode. I think of this description now as she sails into my apartment and says, “So I’ve been thinking about ways to kill Grady, and I think poisoning is the way to go.”

She then bursts into the refrain of “Goodbye Earl.”

I manage a smile, then tell her that Grady probably isn’t worth a prison sentence.

“That’s debatable,” she says, dropping her tote bag on the floor and wrapping her long arms around me. Lainey’s hugs are the best, and I lean into her, inhaling her no-nonsense perfume, which smells more like aftershave. “What a piece of shit.”

“It hurts so bad, Lainey,” I say, fighting back tears as I cling to her.

“Don’t worry,” she says, finally releasing me. “We will make him pay for this.” Her brown eyes are piercing.

I nod, less concerned with revenge than with my broken heart, but at least she’s distracting me. “How are we going to do that?” I ask.

“I have some ideas. But first—what do you have to drink?”

“Just vodka and some cheap chardonnay,” I say, knowing her standards are higher than mine. They didn’t used to be—she was a Boone’s Farm girl in college—but a lot has changed in Lainey’s life since then. She’s still as down to earth as ever, but her tastes have become more expensive.

“Cheap chardonnay fits the mood, I think.” She smiles.

We make our way to the kitchen, and I open my fridge, pulling out a screw-top bottle, then pouring two glasses.

“Go ahead and top mine off,” she says with another smile.

I nod and fill both glasses to the top. We each take one, then head over to my sofa.

Lainey kicks off her boho-chic boots that seem so out of season but I’m sure are cool in New York and L.A. She curls her legs up under her while I put my feet on my coffee table.

“So I’ve been doing some digging,” she says, taking a gulp of her wine. “And this Munich chick is absolutely pathetic.”

For a second, I’m confused. Then I smile and say, “You mean Berlin.”

“Munich, Berlin, Frankfurt, whatever. It’s a stupid name. And don’t get me started on her pathetic Instagram,” she says, then immediately launches into a rant. “She photoshops the fuck out of everything. Does she think people can’t see what she’s doing?”

I know Lainey is trying to comfort me, but she seems to be forgetting that I just saw the woman in real life. Unretouched, naked, and flawless.

“And seriously—what’s with those floral dresses? Good God. Those bows and puffy sleeves? She’s a walking antebellum costume.”

“I think she’s going for wholesome,” I say.

“Wholesome? She doesn’t get to monetize a prim and proper Southern belle image, then fuck someone’s fiancé. She needs to be held accountable. Outed.”

“Outed how?” I ask, picturing something crazy that only happens in urban myths—like a billboard on Peachtree Street or an ad in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

“Funny you should say that,” she says, looking proud of herself. “So on my flight, I made a list of all her brand partnerships…. I also found a mutual friend of ours in the PR world. I reached out and told her I needed a tastemaker in Atlanta to help with a project. Guess who she suggested?”

“Lainey! No! Stop! Berlin’s family is as connected as Grady’s—”

“And? So?”

“So I don’t have the stomach for this kind of conflict.”

“Well, I do.” She blinks her long jet-black eyelashes. They look like extensions, but they’re natural—like everything else about her.

I sigh, part of me wanting to unleash Lainey’s wrath on both of them. As powerful as Berlin and Grady might be in Atlanta, Lainey has more cachet and a much bigger platform.

“I just don’t want you to do something crazy,” I say.

“It’s not crazy to hold someone accountable. She knows Grady has a fiancée, right?”

I nod. The social circles we move in aren’t that big—everyone knows everything. “I just don’t get it,” I say. “Why would he propose? And then do this?”

“Because he’s a man. He wants to have his cake and eat it, too.”

I get a nauseatingly graphic image and groan. “Do you think she’s the only one? Or do you think there have been others?” I ask, as the possibility of sexually transmitted diseases crosses my mind for the first time.

“Who knows? Who cares? One is too many.”

“I know, but I’d feel a lot better if this was the only time. Like a fluke…”

“A fluke?”

“You know what I mean—”

“No, I don’t. And you need to stop it right now.”

“Stop what?”

“Searching for ways to somehow excuse this—”