Page 39 of The Boyfriend Effect (Frisky Business 1)
He and I go back years. The others I met in college, but Wolfie and I have been best friends since the third fucking grade. And Maren? Maren was the gap-toothed kindergartener with a too-big backpack. God, that thing almost toppled her over. I always promised Wolfie I would help look out for her, help take care of her.
Not take advantage of a schoolgirl crush and fuck her into next Wednesday the first chance I got.
“I’ll be right back,” I say as casually as I can.
Wolfie doesn’t look up and grunts in response.
I head to the single-stall bathroom and pull out my phone. If this isn’t a sign that what I’m doing is wrong, I don’t know what is.
Maren’s contact is one of the first that come up, and I start typing out a text message explaining that we can’t do this anymore. That this weekend was a mistake. That I’m sorry.
But then I remember the look on her face at the lake house when she thought that I was the one who invited Holly. The look on her face that night when she thought I was rejecting her. This is the kind of news that will crush her, especially after what we just did. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t tell her this face-to-face?
I delete the text and stuff my phone back in my pocket.
My heart hurts at just the thought of what I know I have to do. But also, for the first time, I know that what I’m doing is right. That ending things with Maren is the only way we can all go back to normal and move forward with clear consciences.
So, why do I feel so low?14* * *MARENWhen Scarlett insisted we celebrate the fundraiser’s success with drinks, there was only one restaurant suitable for such an occasion. The Signature Room.
The restaurant sits on the ninety-fifth floor of the Hancock Building, overlooking downtown Chicago, the glittering lights of the skyline a stark contrast to the black expanse of Lake Michigan at night. The service is top-rated, and the food and cocktails are out of this world, according to all reviews. In Scarlett’s words, it’s fancy as hell.
A blur of texts ensued, swapping photos of outfit options and landing on logistics. Before long, the plan was finalized. Tonight, Scarlett, Penelope, and I would arrive at eight o’clock in our finest semiformal looks. We’d split the cost of a rideshare service so we could all drink our fill—no designated driver necessary.
When we step off the elevator, our heels click pleasantly against the hardwood floor. Scarlett wears a loose-fitting black jumpsuit that cinches at the waist, with red pumps and lipstick to match. Penelope is flaunting her beautiful figure in a coral slip dress that falls to the knee, sporting an adorable pair of nude kitten heels. Meanwhile, I’m wearing my favorite out-on-the-town number—a strapless gray dress with strappy black heels.
The hostess looks up from her clipboard and smiles a warm welcome before directing us to the cocktail bar in the loft above.
Walking up the winding staircase, I take in the view. The restaurant is even more elegant than the photos online. We find a small table next to the wall of windows, sharing excited giggles. Perusing the cocktail menu, I’m pleasantly surprised by how reasonable the prices are. Scarlett orders a dirty martini with extra olives, Penelope proudly flashes her ID and asks for a vodka soda, and I opt for a glass of white wine. As we sip our drinks, the conversation comes easily.
“It’s honestly such a waste too.” Penelope sighs. “We were having such good conversations. But I haven’t heard from him in over a week. I can take a hint.”
She smiles halfheartedly, and my heart aches for her. Her experiences with dating apps are thankfully less colorful than Scarlett’s, but still not great.
“I hate that shit,” Scarlett grumbles over the rim of her martini glass. “Just be up front, you know? As women, we should be the ones ghosting them. Men don’t take rejection well. I’ll admit, I’ve ghosted a few crazies over the years. But normally, if I’m just not feeling it, I tell him straight up. I don’t understand why men can’t return the courtesy.”
“Exactly.” Penelope splays her hands wide over the table as she leans forward to whisper, “I know we had a connection. So the least he could have done was respect my feelings and tell me he didn’t want a romantic relationship with me. It sucks, yeah, but at least there’s transparency.”
“I swear you’re both indestructible,” I say, grateful for an opening to chime in. “I’ve never had any luck with dating apps. One weirdo, and I deleted all my accounts.”
“I don’t know about indestructible.” Scarlett laughs, stirring the olives in her drink.
Penelope takes a long swig of her vodka soda before she says, “Yeah, speaking for myself, I’m not indestructible, just lonely.”
