Lola was quiet for a moment. “But you know what? I’ll tell Vonyetta I’ll give the speech in the morning. No big deal. Better they receive it with rejuvenated minds anyway.”
“Really?” I asked, elated.
“Yes, of course. I could use a night in.” She gave me her warmest smile . . . and there it was, my dear therapist. I felt it. Our connection had grown. Our bond was strengthening. I had her. My vulnerability was a treasure for her, and she couldn’t just let it go. She could never leave someone so vulnerable on their own—someone in need of her attention and care.
Lola stayed, drank her wine, and I laughed at her jokes, gasped at her stories. I even painted her toes for her. She wanted blue on her toes. I wanted to laugh at how predictable she was.
This was the night when I knew. I knew that Lola Maxwell was considering me a very close friend and a gift to her. I was slowly becoming the little sister she’d wished she had while growing up—the friend who indulged in her picture-perfect life and absorbed every detail of it.
The friend who oohed and aahed about her trips to Belize, Greece, and Thailand. I was the friend who accepted her, and allowed her to be herself, and she would love it. Crave it. Need it.
I had her confidence, witnessed her vulnerability, and accepted her flaws. She could be slightly imperfect around me, trust me with secrets, confide in me about Corey, whom I loved hearing about, even if it came from her.
She wouldn’t let me go. No, in fact she’d want me everywhere she went from that moment forward.
She’d need me . . . and that was my plan all along.
Gain her trust, then ruin her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The perks of having a rich best friend were so much more than I’d imagined. I didn’t think it would all happen so quickly, yet there I was, living it up and getting text messages from my new bestie every day.
I spent many evenings at Lola’s mansion, or just with her in general. Sometimes we’d cook together while talking about Lola’s day, or we’d sit on her patio and sip chilled white wine while reading a new book she thought would be good for us to read together.
I would post on my Instagram about the new book my bestie and I were reading, or take a picture of me holding a glass of her expensive wine in the air with the pool lightly blurred in the background. I’d tag Lola and she’d like my Instagram posts and even comment sometimes and, surprisingly, being her new bestie brought a lot of followers my way.
I understood it now, Marriott—the craze over social media. It’s addicting as hell to watch the number of followers you have grow with every new post.
I realized that Lola liked to be in control of those who were close, though. She also loved being complimented. She liked to feel as if she owned a person—that she could control what they wore, what they drank, what they read.
When we’d go to restaurants and order, it was always she who picked the wine we’d drink as well as the appetizer. The choice of entrée was all mine, but she’d always mention how much she recommended a certain course.
I went into her office once while she was on a call by the pool and saw she had two calendars, one with dates of her events and one with dates of Corey’s. A bit much, if you asked me. I was sure Corey could keep up with his own events, but I had a feeling they weren’t there as reminders for herself. They were there so she could know everywhere he’d be in the future. So she could notice patterns, perhaps? She was a smart woman. She knew what she was doing.
Corey was never around, and that was strange to me, considering how often I was at Lola’s place. In due time, I told myself.
To my luck, my budding friendship progressed without interruptions. Three weeks had passed and Keke was still comatose. Lola’s visits to the hospital happened less frequently, but she did send flowers every day, straight from Keke’s flower shop. She’d mentioned to me that it would be her way of letting Keke know she had the shop being tended to for her while she was out, and a way to support her company. Pathetic, really.
I visited the hospital every day, sporting my black cap, making sure Keke was still out cold. I never went into the room, just passed by. The door would always be wide open during the day, with a clear display of colorful flowers in vases placed on the counter in front of the window. Sometimes her mother would be there. Sometimes no one would be there at all.