Page 41 of Say You Will

There’s no covering the small huff of disbelief that comes out of my mouth. My real friends would pull their own fingernails out with pliers before they said something judgmental about the way I look, then or now. My face and body are no one’s business but my own. She sounds like my mother gave her a script.

“Freaky Franki,” she muses. “Unbelievable.” Pen laughs and waits for me to join her.

When she realizes I’m not, she gains a belligerent expression. “What?”

“You know I cried over that nickname. Why would you use it now?”

For a moment, Pen looks like a deer caught in headlights, unable to process the fact that I called her out. Then she collects herself and gives a one-shouldered shrug. “It was a long time ago. I didn’t think it would still bother you. You don’t look like that anymore, and I’m sure you grew out of lying on floors and doing that weird self-hypnosis.” She says the last part in a reassuring voice.

A hard, soundless breath punches out of me.Has she always been this rude?Maybe she was. In comparison to the girls who bullied me, she seemed nice at the time. “I’m not a different person because I had surgery and learned how to do a smokey eye. The self-hypnosis is meditation I learned in therapy to manage stress. I haven’t ‘grown out of it.’”

“No need to get sensitive.” She smiles brightly and indicates my outfit. “That’s from your dad’s new fall collection, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” I say, tone flat.

“So cool that he always sends you those pieces. Does he still make you give them back at the end of the season?”

“Yes.” Technically, one of his people sends them. I’m certain it’s nothing more than a standing order on the calendar for someone else to perform. Like an oil change.

My mother told me I was an idiot not to realize that an assistant was the one sending birthday and Christmas gifts from Henry in the same way. That turned out to be a lie. One among many.

When we were in school, I never explicitly gave Pen any of the clothing my father sent. She borrowed them, though, and never returned several items. I’d had to make up stories about damaging them accidentally. It’s really too bad Jonny asks for them back. I could have sold one of his purses online, in season, and covered Oliver’s vet bills.

She huffs. “Your father is so controlling. Good thing your mom is so nice.”

Pen grabs her phone and signals for the server. “We need a photo.”

I shake my head, but when the young woman hurries over, Pen hands her the phone, anyway. “Take a pic for us.”

Pen immediately strikes a pose and leans into the table toward me. “Come on, Franki.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I need it for my IG,” she wheedles. “Don’t be a party pooper.”

Determined to get it over with, I carefully drape my body the way my mother taught me to do and manufacture a small smile. The server snaps the pic, hands the phone back to Pen, who approves it, and slides the gold case into her bag.

Pen watches me with a knowing look. “How wouldyoulike to be one ofmybridesmaids?”

I pause with my yogurt almost to my mouth. Lowering my spoon, I shake my head. “That’s kind of you to include me, but I don’t know what I’ll be doing in six months.” My job is keeping me busy at the moment, and travel is a real possibility. Mostly, though, I’d rather lick a New York City subway turnstile than be a bridesmaid in Pen’s wedding.

Her expression turns sly. “Are you thinking you won’t be available to be my bridesmaid because you’re moving back to California with your mother?”

It’s the hopeful tone more than anything else that clues me in. “What is my mother giving you to spy on me?”

She stills, her eyes wide before she recovers and glances to the left. “I’m not spying on anyone. I saw your photo, realized you were in New York, and decided to reach out. I don’t remember you being so paranoid.”

Stand up. Say the words. Then walk out with dignity.One more boundary. A bridge in flames behind me.

I set my spoon on the table, drag my bag over, take out my phone, and check the time. I could chat for at least fifteen more minutes.

I won’t be doing that.

Removing forty dollars from my wallet, I drop it onto the table and stand. I pull out my mental shield.“Fuck’em, Franki.”

“Don’t call me again. We’re not friends.” I manage to say the words without shaking. Her status as the least horribleroommate I had at boarding school doesn’t qualify her to be in my life now.

Pen leans back, expression stunned, before she manages to sputter, “You’re in no position to act like a bitch to me.”

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