Page 107 of Fake Shot

Morgan sighs, then takes a deep gulp from the bottle of hard cider she just opened. “She’s going to love it, and that’s all that matters. Right?”

“Of course. But we are not crafty people. Why didn’t we just do this at a restaurant?”

“Because we wanted it to be personal, and we wanted to be able to hang out all day.”

“Well, we should have just hired someone to plan this all.”

“All we’re doing are the table arrangements and the photo booth,” she reminds me. At least we decided to have it catered, because as much as I enjoy cooking, I find I’m doing a lot less of it now. Partially because stress was always a motivating factor with my cooking, and with Colt around allthe time, I’m either less stressed or just better able to handle it.

I glance over at the ten-by-ten whitewashed wooden backdrop that stands against one wall of my entryway. Building it was the only part of this party that I’ve felt equipped to help with. We have strands of leaves and flowers that need to be intertwined and hung along the wooden frame, and a custom-cut banner with adorable gold letters that will hang beneath the floral swag. But the vases and candles and the fresh flowers that will be delivered tomorrow, all of those decorations feel very much outside of my wheelhouse, even though I know we’re creating something spectacular that Lauren will love.

“I should have taken Graham home for bed and let Audrey stay and help. She’d probably be a lot better at all this than me.”

Morgan laughs. “Jules, you work with your hands. You’re great at this stuff.”

“Being good at something and enjoying it are two totally different things.”

The only thing keeping me going is knowing how much Lauren will love it, and I’d do just about anything to make her happy. Even her gift, which I really hesitated to make, since it will mean divulging my secret hobby to my friends, was custom designed because I knew she’d love it.

Morgan’s phone buzzes on the table, and she flips it over to look at the notification. As I pull over another hurricane vase to wipe out before placing the candle inside, I watch her eyebrows scrunch together. She taps the screen, and her eyes narrow as she reads whatever it is.

“Everything okay?” I ask when she sets her phone down on the table, but doesn’t look back up.

“Uhhhh . . .”

“Okay, now you’re kind of scaring me. What’s wrong?”

She raises her eyes to meet my gaze, and her face has gone full-on pale. Her eyes are huge, like a deer caught in the headlights, and she reaches up, smoothing her hand over her strawberry blonde hair where it’s pulled back into a bun. Her lips part, but no words come out.

“What the hell, Morgan? What’s going on?”

“I...” Picking up her phone, she taps the screen and hands it to me. And as my eyes scan the direct message that was sent to the Our House account, which Morgan manages for us, my stomach drops so fast I’m afraid I’m going to throw up.

Jasmine Waters

Hi, this message is for Jules. I’ve been seeing your “fiancé” since October. I’m sure you didn’t know about me, just like I didn’t know about you until I met you last week. Just thought you’d want to know that he’s a liar and a cheater. Message me back if you want more details. I’ve got receipts, and I’m happy to go to the media with them if you don’t respond.

Taking a screenshot, I send it to myself from her phone, then hand it back to her and pick mine up off the table. I quickly send a message off to Colt before I can think twice about it.

Jules

What the fuck is this all about?

“I know who that woman is,” I tell Morgan, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, she was at the Neon Cactus...I don’t know...like a week ago? Colt and I were about to walk home,” I say, remembering how pleasantly buzzed I was feeling at the time, “but I went to the bathroom first, and when I came out, she was next to him, leaning into him and running her hand along his arm.”

Bile rises into my esophagus, burning as it comes up, and I swallow hard to prevent myself from throwing up.Deep breaths. In, two-three-four, out, two-three-four.I repeat the breathing technique that sometimes can prevent me from spiraling into a full-on panic attack.

“But she wasn’t therewithhim, right?”

“No, we went together to meet up with some of his teammates right after we got back from Montreal.” I shake my head, because my brain feels cloudy—like it’s having trouble completing its most essential functions: thinking, as well as reminding my heart to beat and my lungs to breathe.

In, two-three-four. Out, two-three-four.

“He was very clearly pushing her away when I came out, but I don’t know...she seemed surprised. At first, I thought she was surprised he was turning her down, but maybe she was actually surprised he was engaged?”

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