Page 43 of Friends Don't

“Yes and no.”

She nods at me, encouraging me to go on with the openness of her expression.

I sigh. How do I explain this? “Cashmere Cove was a great place to grow up. Small town on the water. Basically every kid’s dream. I still love how people here look out for each other. We have our traditions.”

“The prank wars,” Poppy cuts in with a rueful shake of her head.

“Among others. There’s a real sense of community. I like being a part of it”—I pause—“even if people don’t want me to be a part of it,” I finish quietly.

Poppy is silent, nibbling on her lip in my periphery. I clasp my hands, feeling like I want to crawl out of my own skin for having said what I said. But there’s something about Poppy. I consider her a friend—perhaps the first friend I’ve had, who isn’t related to me and who isn’t Collin, in the past ten years.

“Ginny told me about Tricia.”

Andthatfeels like a punch straight to the diaphragm.

I grind my jaw and chance a look at her. She’s staring back at me, and I try to read her expression, but then she blinks and looks away. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

I exhale. I can’t decide if I’m relieved or wishing I could spill the whole story for Poppy to hear. I hate that her opinion of me is already jaded. I’m dying to fill the silence of the moment, which is very unlike me, but thinking about Poppy thinking about what she thinks happened between Tricia and me is enough to make me want to puke.

Too much thinking is never a good thing—that’s what I always say. Better to change the subject.

“What do you do for fun?” I ask.

Poppy cuts her gaze to me and then looks away. “I have fun with my sisters. Hanging out with them. It’s been fun to decorate The Downer.” She grimaces, shooting me an apologetic look. “We don’t mean that name as a dig on you or your property. Truly, no offense.”

“None taken. I sort of like the name. It’s regal.”

Poppy snaps her finger. “That’s what I said. It’s fun, right?” She settles back, crossing her bare arms across her t-shirt-clad chest, seemingly content.

“Naming the duplex you live in isn’t what I had in mind when I asked you what you did for fun.”

I spent most of today with Poppy, and that, coupled with the other times I’ve been able to observe her, has helped me create what I think is a pretty accurate picture of her life. I’m not quite ready to let her off the hook thinking that housekeeping and caring for her sisters constitutesfun.

“I get to have fun all day. It’s in my job description. I come up with fun events for the kids and the community. Pretty much my entire life is fun.”

She sounds so cheerful about it. I almost hate to burst her bubble.

Almost.

“You’re curating fun. For other people.”

“I—”

“When was the last time you let your hair down? Lived a little?”

She sucks in a breath, looking put out. “I do live.”

“What you’re doing isn’t living. It’s play-acting at life.”

Poppy pushes her bottom lip forward in a pout. “That’s a pretty big assumption from someone who doesn’t know me all too well.”

I know more about her than she thinks, thanks to the emails. But she doesn’t know that.

The guilt is back.

All I do is shrug.

She holds me in place with a glare. It’s not an angry look, so much as it is unflinching. Determined. It's a look that says I pushed her, but she’s going to push right back.

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