As she uncrossed her arms, then stepped aside, I walked into the room, then turned to face her. “Are you still mad at me?” I asked.
“I was never mad. I just asked you a simple question,” she said, pushing the door closed with her foot. “You’re the one who got mad at me.”
“Fair enough.” I nodded, then took a deep breath. “Well, the answer to your question is no. Nothing ever happened between Hannah and me. Or Lainey and me.”
She gave me a small smile, her shoulders relaxing, then said, “Good. I’m glad to hear that.”
“And I’m glad that you’re glad to hear that.”
She smiled bigger, then asked if I had fun at the party.
“Yes,” I said. “But I missed you.”
“I missed you, too,” she said. “And I’m really going to miss you next year.”
“Same,” I said, my heart fluttering. “I hope you get into Harvard. Then we’ll be closer.”
She took a deep breath, then exhaled, glancing nervously over at her desk strewn with index cards and Post-it notes. “Speaking of Harvard, I really better get back to it.”
“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.
