Page 34 of Can't Always Get What You Want

Poppy has been my sounding board since we were teenagers, through every bad date, every dumb decision, every heartbreak. She knows me better than most people, which is both a blessinganda curse.

Because sheknowswhen I’m full of shit.

“Uh huh,” she says, humoring me. “And Luca is just afriend.”

I snap my fingers in her direction. “Exactly.”

She full-on cackles. “It’s precious that you’re in denial.”

“I’mnotin denial.” I look down again, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s just a shirt.”

A sexy, low-cut shirt that goes great with my big hoop earrings. High-waisted jeans. Flowing hair.

I went brunette two days ago after being platinum blonde for ages, and honestly? Iloveit.

Blonde Nova was bright, sun-kissed, a little wild. She had fun, didn’t think too hard about things, made impulsive choices just for the thrill of it.

Brunette Nova? She’s different.

A little more grounded. Mature.

Looking at my reflection now—at the way my dark waves fall over my shoulders, the way my shirt dipsjust low enough, the way my lipstick is a shade bolder than usual—I wonder if I’m pretending. If I’mtryingto convince myself of something that isn’t actually true.

Because if I was really going just for the cup, if this was not a date, then why do I care what I look like?

Poppy, of course, sees right through me. She always does.

“Anyway, how’s work?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. “Are they still treating you like a literal goddess?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

I groan. “Poppy. It’snota date.”

She gasps dramatically. “Oh. How could I forget that people definitely get this dressed up toretrieve a cup.”

Of course I’ve told her all about our drinks.

How I wore sweatpants and how it hadn’t seemed to phase Luca one little bit. How he’d looked at me like I could’ve been wearing a trash bag and he still would’ve found me attractive.

How I laid in bed afterward, staring at the ceiling, replaying every little interaction in my head. That despite my best efforts, Luca has been living rent-free in my head for days.

And now, I’m seeing him again.

To “share custody of a cup.”

I reach for the perfume and spray it on my wrists. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing is going to happen.”

“Why? Please don’t push him away.”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t even know him.”

Poppy sighs as if she were irritated. “I don’thaveto know him. I knowyou. And I think it’s time to stop pushing men away.”

“Stop it.” I do not push men away.

I just haven’t found one worth keeping around.

“You either get bored, or you find a reason to run,” she reminds me. “It’s like–the second someone gets close, you freak out.”

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