struggles to get along aren’t secret. I’m the secret part, on so many levels.
“You came,” Tory says, a tight grin stitched on his lips. He nods and avoids looking me in the eyes. Hayden’s hands are on my shoulders, and though he said he came here as a kind gesture to me, his friendly touch isn’t meant to be kind at all.
“Of course. Can’t miss my girl’s party,” Hayden says.
I catch the crinkle on Tory’s brow as he turns to take a few more samples from the desert table.
“Cool. Well, I’ll be in the kitchen, helping the moms.” He pops a candied pecan in his mouth from the few gathered in his palm and glares at his brother, saving a small bit of that look for me as he passes.
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
I can’t even talk to June about this right now. I haven’t caught her up, and I’m not sure I even want to. I’m not proud of how I handled all this, but the thought that Tory thinks Hayden is here under any pretense other than to just show up and play the part is ripping at my guts. He’s assuming that we aren’t really broken up, or that somehow Hayden was mistaken. I look like a massive player just toying with two brothers, which, ugh, maybe I am.
“Hayden, good to see you,” my mom says, walking by with a platter of sandwiches in one hand, tugging on Hayden’s sleeve sweetly with the other.
This is awful. I want to crawl into a hole, any hole. I’ll take a keyhole, smoosh myself inside and just live in a fucking doorknob.
June starts clapping—it’s her annoying method of getting attention—and we all turn to face her.
“Thank you, guys, for coming together today to celebrate our favorite diva . . .” She fans a hand out toward me. I guess I’m the diva? “Abby, you’re a woman now.”
“She’s been a woman for a while,” Lucas says under his breath. June swings an arm at his chest and he spills a bit of punch on his shirt. Good.
“Now, we said no presents because let’s face it, Abby’s got enough shit,” June jokes. She’s right, my closet is packed and I don’t really do trinkets and things. Mostly, though, I don’t like the awkward attention that comes along with getting a gift. The giver watches you open it, holding their breath and waiting for this perfect reaction. I don’t think I could ever give someone the absolute perfect reaction and the pressure of it stresses me out. Even on Christmas, I ask for cash. Cash is easy to react to. “Hey, thanks for the cash!”
“But I did a little thing,” June continues.
Shit. A gift.
“It’s nothing extraordinary, Abs, so don’t expect much. But I may have gotten a little help from your mom to borrow a few things from your room for this occasion.” June walks over a large manila envelope, holding it in her flat palms as if she is presenting me with the crown. I quirk my lip up in a half-hearted smile.
“Should I be nervous?” I am nervous. She took shit from my room!
“I don’t think so,” she answers. Yeah, that’s a vague answer.
With a deep breath, I take the envelope in my hands, straightening the clasp to pull the flap free. I reach in and feel the coils of a spiral notebook, and for a brief moment, my heart stops at the thought that she’s somehow dug up my fourth grade diary.
My center of gravity shifts a little with the dose of panic, but things right themselves when I slide the booklet from the envelope and see exactly what my friend has done. It’s a calendar—of June’s various pissed off faces.
Damn it. I love it.
My mouth hangs open in search of the right reaction, but June fills in the words for me.
“Right? It’s your most favorite thing, isn’t it?” She flips the cover open for me and points to January. It’s a photo of her chewing, her eyes all screwed up and angry that I’m taking her pic. There’s a dab of pizza sauce on her chin.”
“Aww, the memories,” I say teasingly, covering my heart and looking my best friend in the eyes.
“It’s literally the one thing I knew you needed in your life—a humiliating collection, sorted by month, of pictures of me.” She’s wearing a wry smile, and without pause, I reach for my phone from my back pocket and snap what is probably a blurry shot of her face.