Page 118 of Ripped & Shipped
“Chris, I mean it! I’ll go all banzai kamikaze on your butt, and you will regret being born. Tell me you hung up!”
Silence.
I guess I’m going to have to take my chances.
I move back to a squatting position, grapple for my phone overhead, and grab a T-shirt from the bottom rung of my closet. Keeping the phone so the screen faces away from me, I throw the T-shirt over my cell. Once the phone is securely wrapped in the T-shirt, I peek my face in through the neck hole so I can see my cell. I push my hand up under the hem of the shirt and power the phone off.
Whew.
Oh. My. Lanta.
I nearly flashed Chris!
And I told him I’d explain more later.
I won’t. No way I’m ever telling him that story. I can see it now, “So, what happened in your closet?”
… Yep. I’m not telling.
Chris shows up forty-five minutes later. After that whole closet fiasco, I decided the red eyelet shirt really was the best option after all. And his reaction to my outfit does not disappoint.
I do a twirl in the foyer when I open the door. “I’m ready to go all Red, White, and Blue, and Corn Too!”
“Looking good,” Chris says. “And what was that FaceTime call all about?”
“Nothing. Just a classic butt-dial. Are you ready?”
“I am now.”
He holds the door open for me and we walk side by side to his truck. He’s wearing a red T-shirt and blue jeans, and looking all patriotic and scrumptious.
“Let’s snap a selfie,” I suggest before we get in the truck.
“Sounds good,” he agrees.
I almost chuckle. He’s gotten so used to this process. A few weeks ago he would have been all grumbly. Before that, well, we all know how he was. He actually turned my phone off mid-livestream. That seems like a lifetime ago.
Chris loops his arm around my waist. I lean into him and I extend my phone. He has to tip his head down to get closer to me, and his woodsy, orange, campfire scent wraps around me when he does.
It’s all I can do not to turn and plant a kiss on his face. I could—under the guise of it being for social media, but something in me holds back. I’m tired of faking things with Chris. I want our next kiss to be real, something we both want for the right reasons, and only between the two of us, not for show.
On the drive downtown, I tell Chris about the trip to LA and my plans to go.
“I still don’t think you should go out there,” he says.
“Why not?”
“I don’t trust Drake.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“Neither do you.”
“I know him well enough. He wants to help my career. Besides, what’s it to you, Chris? You’re my friend, and I appreciate that, but why do you care what I do?”
“I care. Okay?”
That’s not enough. I go silent. I don’t want to fight with Chris. My mind reels thinking of everything that’s been bugging me for the past month. Meg’s moving out in less than a year. I’m chronically disliked in my own hometown. I swim upstream daily just to exist here. I’m aging, which puts my position as an influencer on thin ice. This “Beefy” guy seems obsessed with me in an unhealthy way. And, as much as I’ve loved faking things with Chris, putting on a charade has drained me. I’m just tired of fighting to fit in.
