Best Friends Don't Kiss

I know well and good that my dad understands my mom is nuts when it comes to her—very much unwanted—mission to find me a man, and that Great-Uncle Don, Aunt Lil’s husband, and Great-Uncle Al, Aunt Poppy’s husband, gave up on keeping track of their nutty wives years ago. But it makes me feel better to put just a little bit of fear in their hearts.

Three more texts flash across the screen, but I ignore them and toss my phone back down onto my bed and finish getting ready for tonight’s big bash at our favorite bar.

I slip on the knee-high white go-go boots I purchased at a secondhand shop and stand up to check out my appearance in the mirror.

Not too shabby, Ava.

Tonight’s attire is not my usual choice in fashion, but that’s because it’s Halloween. A bright yellow crop top and miniskirt cover my body, and a vintage silk scarf is wrapped around my head, holding back my long blond locks so they stay behind my ears and fall behind my shoulders.

And the boots. Of course, I can’t forget about these kick-ass boots. No doubt, I spent a hundred dollars too much on them, but I couldn’t help myself. They are the perfect addition to this year’s costume.

Also, I will most likely never wear them again, but no need to slave over the details of my irresponsible economics.

I do a little twirl in front of the floor-length mirror in my bedroom and grin. Perfect.

The heels of my boots click-clack across the hardwood floors of my apartment as I head into the kitchen to snag a bottle of yellow Fanta out of the fridge and shove it into my purse, along with my keys and wallet and phone.

But just before I can sling it over my shoulder, the all-too-familiar sounds of an incoming call stop my progress.

I reach back into the Mary Poppins-style sack and fish around until I find the noisemaker.

I just barely pull it out before my ringtone comes to an end, and I glance at the screen.

Incoming Call Emily.

I hate to admit it, but the sight of my sister’s name on the screen makes me temporarily consider sending the call to voice mail.

Familial guilt stops me. I swear shared DNA is more powerful than the world’s most potent drug. At least, it is when you’re an eternal people-pleaser like me.

“Hey, Em,” I answer finally.

“Ava!” she greets, her voice all chirpy and cheerful. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all week! Where in the hell have you been?”

I cringe, spitballing on the fly to come up with a believable lie. “Sorry about that. I’ve been a little busy at work.”

This week at work has been one of the slowest in a while, but there’s only so much I can stomach talking about Kate’s wedding and my current single status with the female members of my nosy family.

It’s exhausting.

“Mm-hm, sure,” Luke hums behind me, startling me so much I crack my hip into the edge of the counter with my jump.

He frowns and steps forward, but I wave him away dramatically.

Go back to your apartment and wait for me to be ready! I scream with my eyes. I don’t need him listening in on my conversation. After this many years of friendship, he knows me too well, and I’m really not in the mood for someone to call me on my bullshit.

He rolls his eyes as I wave my arm harder.

“So, did you get my email about the bridesmaids’ dresses?” my sister asks in my ear. I turn away from Luke’s painfully knowing eyes and face my cabinets to answer.

“Sure did,” I respond with a nod. “I’m fine with whatever dress you guys think I should wear.”

“Be serious.” Em snorts. “Surely, there’s one dress you like best.”

The plan is for all of Kate’s bridesmaids to wear black satin, but each dress will have a different silhouette —short, long, A-line, mermaid-style, that sort of thing. And since I’m the maid of honor, I’m supposed to choose first.

“They all looked great to me.”

“Ava, tell me which one you like best.”

What I want to say is that I’ve yet to see a bridesmaid dress that I do like. In my opinion, they’re all pretty much hideous, but I bite my tongue and take a kinder approach.

A piece of paper slides across the counter in front of me, Luke’s scratchy handwriting all over it in Sharpie.Here’s an idea…why don’t you just tell your family the truth?I shoo him away again and plug my ear to stop the thoughts he’s insisting on putting into my head.

“Um…how about the mermaid-style?”

“Is that the one you want?”

“Yeah. Sure,” I answer and hitch my hip against the kitchen counter and start to go through my unopened mail as a distraction. “I’ll wear the mermaid-style.”

Luke tosses the piece of paper back on top of the stack of unread mail, this time turned over to the other side to reveal another message.