Her friends looked away, and their silence said it all. If Sam had read the article, he apparently hadn’t cared.
Because there had been nothing. Not one word. Not in the week’s grace period she gave him to figure his shit out. Not in the week between her writing the article and its going to press. Not since the magazine had been on the newsstands.
Even her family didn’t know what was going on. She didn’t mind that they’d tried to keep in touch with him—he needed them. But as far as she knew, he hadn’t returned her sisters’ phone calls.
And Riley’s mother, while solidly on her daughter’s side, had sent the guy potato chocolate cake as a cheer-up gesture after Riley’s article had come out and gotten little more than a terse thank-you on their machine.
Although that, Riley had to admit, might have been because her mother’s potato chocolate cake could double as a doorstop. She didn’t want to think about her mom’s reaction if Sam didn’t show his face at Christmas, which was right around the corner. Potato-stuffed fruitcake for sure.
She hadn’t expected him to stay away. Not after his whole reason for dumping her was his relationship with her family. So every Wednesday night, she’d braced for the possibility that he’d be there.
But since they’d broken up, Wednesday night had come and gone without Sam Compton. And every time, she’d tried to tell herself she was glad, even when she had to wear sunglasses on the subway ride home to hide the unwanted tears.
The only missing piece of the puzzle was Liam, who’d been more or less absent from her life.
Sure, he’d done the whole I’m-here-if-you-need-me big-brother thing. But then he’d calmly and plainly asked her not to make him choose sides. So she hadn’t.
Halfheartedly, Riley ripped open one of the letters. It was short, sweet, and a little scary.
Dear Ms. McKenna—
Thank you for publicly declaring what I’ve always known: Men are shits. I’ve dated eight of my own “Bruces” and I hope every last one of them dies alone and miserable. If you ever move to Georgia, let me know. I’ve started a club. Forty-two members of proud, man-hating divas. Think about it.
Bitter but happy,
Ashley
“Yikes,” Riley muttered, tossing the letter to the side to start a rejection pile. “Do you guys think I’m a man hater?”
“In the literal sense of hating one man? Sure,” Emma said, tossing aside a letter of her own.
“I don’t hate Sam,” Riley said quietly. “Although sometimes I wish I could.”
Julie squeezed her knee gently. “What do you mean?”
Riley let her eyes meet her friend’s. “I just … miss him. The damn article was supposed to be therapeutic. But saying in writing that you can’t make someone love you only makes the realization more final.”
Julie nodded sympathetically, and Riley’s head dipped down to her chin as she let out the painful admission that had been on her chest for weeks. “It hurts.”
“I know, honey,” Julie said, her eyes watering.
Oh no. Not so long ago, Julie Greene never cried. Not watching Titanic or commercials with dogs, not when the bakery was out of chocolate croissants (so okay, maybe only Riley cried about that).
And then Julie met Mitchell, and she became all but useless. She cried if she saw a bird by itself because she thought it had no friends. She cried watching bank commercials, and at jewelry advertisements, and if she saw a cloud she liked. And most especially, she cried when her friends were hurting.
Riley heard Grace sniff from behind her. “Don’t,” Riley said on a watery laugh as she pushed Julie’s damp face away. “You guys are the worst.”
“Indeed,” Emma said, pretending to get an eyelash out of her eye.
“I did the right thing, right?” she said as she picked up another envelope. “Writing it? Even if it did get all these crazies riled up?”
“You owed it to yourself,” Grace said firmly. “And nobody but us and your family knows it was about Sam. It’s not like you publicly humiliated the guy. And I think it’s good that Stiletto tackled a bad relationship in the same no-nonsense way that we approach good ones. Not every relationship is forever, but it’s easy to forget that until your own happily-ever-after goes sideways.”
“Plus, Sam k
new what he was getting into when he hopped into bed with your sexy ass,” Julie added. “It’s the price one pays for dating a Stiletto babe.”
“Can we not call ourselves that?” Emma muttered. “Hey, what about this letter? It’s from a teen girl who wants to know at what point in the relationship you can tell if it’s going to be bad.”