Page 62 of Bring You Back

“He wants me to come over.”

“Booty call?”

She eyes me, brows narrowed, and I take that look to mean we can’t even tease about Julian. Noted.

This is him trying tostep upagain. Make amends. But I’ll tell you one thing—no said booty calls better ever take place in the room diagonal to mine. Julian hits low, but that would be the lowest.

She looks back down at her phone, types out a response. I pull my phone from my back pocket and do the same, right under my ignoredI’m sorrytext.

Stop doing this to her.

Then another.And to me.

Then one more.And to you.

I stare at the plea, the warning, thefightthat I know will go unanswered before slipping my phone back inside my pocket. Reyna’s eyes lift again, up at me, back down at her phone.

She’s having boy troubles, and she wants to talk to me about it. But her troubles now aren’t about just any boy. They’re about a boy who tried to kiss me and is now kissing her. I may hold the best friend title, but I’m going to assume it’s Shelly Belly who holds these conversations now.

I’m relieved, considering.

I’m not against Reyna.

I’m not trying to be.

I don’t want problems.

I sigh at my thinking, then redirect the conversation to different boy talk. “Did Tommy mention he broke up with Shelby?”

Reyna’s head snaps up. “Hewhat?”

I laugh. “Guess not.”

Her eyes dance in thought. “Oh my God. He didn’t act like—”

“Because he’s not.”

She gapes. “How is henot?”

Tommy has either kept the details of his relationship with Shelby from Reyna—which, understandable, or he has tried to make the relationship out to be more than it was—which, stupid. Reyna tends to respond fiercely to any extreme of bad or good news, but I’ll place my bets on Shelly Belly for her downhearted reaction now. I’m sure she’s told Reyna all about her relationship with Tommy.

Reyna’s thumbs race across her phone screen. “Shelby must be crushed. I have to check on her.”

A knock at the door and Valerie’s voice halts her texting. “Reyna! Are you up?” She pushes her way in, not waiting to be invited. “I’m off to work—” She cuts off her spewing at the sight of me, freezing with her mouth hanging open. It’s a shame the guy who dumped her this time isn’t here to fill it.

She’s wearing a white button-down—emphasis on the buttons being down, the top three popped to show cleavage—tucked into a black skirt that falls mid-thigh with strappy heels, in the midst of finger-combing last night’s shame from her hair.

I wonder which street corner she’ll be working tonight.

So, Valerie’s not a prostitute. At least not publicly. Who the hell knows what goes on between her and the men she lets in and out of her body. I wouldn’t doubt there’s some cash involved.

Neither would everyone else around here. Which is why she hates everyone else around here.

It’s an endless cycle of judging lifestyles, starting with the ones closest to home. The Fowlers, the Holloways, and the Godfreys—namely me and my brother—lead more superior lives than Valerie Stokes. Depends who you ask, though. Asking Valerie? It’s the opposite.

She invites judgment. Reyna sometimes gets thrown in, but mostly the criticism lies with her mother.

“You left,” Valerie spits at me with distaste on her tongue, then mutters with eyes closed, “I’m in a nightmare.” Her eyes snap open on Reyna. “I thought you were done with the Godfreys.”

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