Page 71 of The Friend Situation

A hearty laugh escapes me. “Come on. Give me more credit than that. I’m not Easton.”

“It’s plausible!” she counters, challenging me to refute it.

I shake my head, amusement dancing in my eyes. “No, it’s not. I can haveanyoneI want. We both know that,” I say, taking a bite of my food, happy for the sustenance.

“There’s a reason why you can’t have her—I can tell. Plus, Easton says you’ve been an asshole all week,” she insists, her eyes glimmering with knowing. “You had dinner with her on Saturday after Naomi, right?”

I lower my voice. “Have you ever thought that maybe I’m just not ready for a relationship? Everyone seems to forget that I was married for three years, lied to for most of it, manipulated to the point of isolation away from my family, and emotionally abused. Not to mention everything else that happened toward the end. Maybe I just want to be friends, and that’s it. Is it that difficult for you to understand? Please just let me live my life. No one else is.”

She pushed too hard.

Her smile fades, and she removes her gigantic sunglasses. “I’m so sorry, Weston. I wasn’t trying to?—”

I clear my throat, diverting the conversation. “No need to apologize. How are things with you?”

Her smile widens, but I can see the cracks beneath it.

“I’m living the American dream,” she says brightly, but she’s lying.

My sister’s company is struggling, but she won’t admit it to me. Her Calloway stubbornness keeps her from asking for the help she needs, even though she knows I could single-handedly untangle any mess she’s in. And I would for her.

“You’re lying.” I study her, and concern rises.

“I’ve got it under control. If I need your help, I’ll ask for it,” she replies, brushing off my unease with a wave of her hand.

“Don’t act proud,” I warn.

“I’m not, I promise,” she urges.

“Okay, well, keep that same energy when the topic shifts to my dating life or friendships,” I say, my tone light, yet a thread of seriousness weaves through my words.

She takes a sip of water, eyeing me thoughtfully.

Billie looks so much like our mom right now that I smile. Our mother was a famous supermodel in the ’90s and married a billionaire whose wealth could buy empires. Then, twenty years later, she was traded in for a younger model …literally.

My father is another reason I worry about my future relationships. Maybe I’m just following in his footsteps.

My parents’ toxic relationship and my father’s useless cheating were in the headlines my entire life. His divorce was covered like it was a reality television show. Now, the same toxic spotlight is on me and mine.

“Is there something you want to share?” I ask.

“No,” she replies, a mystery swirling in her tone. “What about you?”

“Nope,” I respond.

We share a knowing smile, a fleeting moment of connection, even in our tangled truths.

“I saw what Lena was doing,” she says, her voice laced with disdain.

“It’s old pictures and voice memos. Divorcing her has been a never-ending nightmare,” I reply, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “I’m meeting with my lawyer this week, and I’ll be making my final offer.”

“This is why we begged you to sign a prenup.”

I shake my head, frustration knotting my stomach. “I was an idiot in love who never thought I’d find myself in a divorce, you know? When I married her, I thought it would be forever.”

Her eyes are full of empathy, but then she folds her arms, bracing herself for my next words. “No one lik?—”

“I don’t want to hear how no one liked her, all right? I’m fully aware.”

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