Best Friends Don't Kiss

I completely break under the fucking pressure of it all, and the words blurt from my lips before I can stop them. “Two.”

“Two?”

“Uh…yeah… I’ll be bringing my…boyfriend.”

You’ll be…what? You don’t have a boyfriend, Looney Tunes!

“Your boyfriend? Oh, how exciting! Your mom didn’t tell me you were seeing someone!”

“It’s…uh…fairly new.”

Yeah, it sure is. It hasn’t even fucking started yet…

Thinking better of my answer, I add to it quickly before Callie can undercut it. “But serious. Really serious, actually. We’ve just been keeping it private so we can enjoy the perfectness by ourselves for a while.”

Dear God, Ava.

“That’s so awesome! What’s his name?”

Yeah, Ava! Tell your old archnemesis all about your imaginary boyfriend!

Panic sets in when I realize there is absolutely no way I can talk myself out of this conversation. So, I do what anyone in my situation would do—avoid it.

Three bangs of my fist to my own freaking door, I end the call in a rush, “Oh shoot, Callie! I have to go. My boyfriend just got here, and we’re already late for a big, fancy Halloween party in SoHo. Talk soon! Bye!” Click.

It’s official. I’m pathetic.

I might as well be Debra Messing’s character in The Wedding Date.

Sure, my sister didn’t have an affair with my ex while I was still dating him, but she is my baby sister whose impending nuptials will make me the oldest and last single Lucie sister. And now, because I let Callie fucking Camden get the best of me with her backhanded bullshit, I told the snooty biotch that I have a boyfriend and I’d help plan the reunion.

Oy vey.

Call me crazy, but I highly doubt I can find a hot, Dermot-Mulroney-looking escort in under sixty days.

You know, you could just be an adult about this and tell Callie how you really feel—that you don’t have a boyfriend and you don’t want to help plan that stupid reunion with someone who was a total bitch to you in high school…

That would certainly be the easy way out, wouldn’t it?

Too bad my damn pride is making that feel like an impossible option.

On a heavy sigh, I drop my phone back in my purse, sling my bag over my shoulder, snag the stupid invitation off the counter, head straight out of my apartment, and stride right across the hall, barging through my best friend’s unlocked front door.

I swear, one of the best things Luke and I ever did was rent apartments in the same building—and on the same floor—from his rich uncle Gary. It makes freak-out moments like this a heck of a lot easier to handle.

My go-go boots pound across the hardwood floors as I make a beeline past Luke—who is standing in his living room—dump my purse, and head straight for the kitchen.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where’s the fire?” he says on a laugh. “Please tell me you haven’t gone old-school and brought a hot plate into your apartment.”

“Funny ha-ha, Luke,” I retort but keep it moving to the fridge. “The fire is my life. Everything is shit, I need a drink, and I’m pretty sure we’re already late to the party!”

I snag a beer from his fridge and pop the top off with a bottle opener that hangs on the door by a magnet. The smell of barley and hops assaults my nose. Ugh. I don’t even like beer, or any alcohol really, but I need something—anything—to take the damn edge off.Luke“Did you forget that you hate beer?” I question, but Ava is committed.

Her face crinkles up in disgust as she forces half a bottle of beer down the hatch. Once she’s officially had enough, she slams it onto my kitchen counter and swipes a hand across her mouth. “Yuck. That’s awful.”

“For you, maybe. I happen to think it’s the best. Which is why it’s in my fridge.”

She rolls her eyes at me and stomps back toward the bag she abandoned on my couch. She scoops it up, slings it back on her shoulder and gestures for the door.

I can’t help but laugh.

“Oh no. Don’t tell me you’re in a hurry now. I’ve been waiting for you for more than an hour.”

“I’m in the middle of a crisis, Luke! I don’t have the energy for your jokes.”

I shake my head with a smile. “A crisis, huh? Don’t tell me you fell in the toilet again.”

“No!” she snaps. “But wouldn’t you feel awful now if I had? You didn’t even attempt to help me.”

“I’ll go to confession tomorrow to repent.”

“You’re not Catholic.”

“Oh. That’s right.” I smile huge as I walk back to the counter and grab the half a beer she left behind and take a swig.

When I pull it away and she hitches a hip in impatience, I finally take a good look at what she’s wearing.

A tight yellow skirt, a shirt that’s more of a fucking bra than an actual shirt, and a pair of white boots that stop just below her knees, it all feels a little too sexy to be strolling around some dive bar in the middle of the city.