Page 74 of Collide
Chapter 12
I Like Me Better
The harsh lobby lights in Philippa and Andrew’s building have me questioning every life choice that led to this moment.
Head pounding.
Hungover.
Hungry.
And, of course, uncaffeinated—because I couldn’t figure out the stupid, overpriced coffee machine Philippa installed in my new apartment.
A dangerous combination.
Maid of honor reporting for duty—and for the promise of coffee, waffles, and maybe something for this fucking headache.
I couldn’t care less about this brunch. Even less about weddings.
All that effort, only to unravel slowly, silently. To grow distant. To choose silence over apology before self-imploding.
Maybe I’m too young to be this cynical.
Perhaps I’m exactly old enough to remember how my parents’ marriage shattered so hard they put continents between them.
Or maybe I’ve never loved anyone enough to believe forever is anything more than a vow made with fingers crossed behind your back.
“Be kind to your sister,”my mother’s voice echoes in my pounding head.
Ugh. Fine. I’ll play nice.
I cling to the hope that brunch will deliver something worth chewing—something greasy, sweet, or both.
While I’m looking somewhat forward to the promise of brunch, I’m less than thrilled for what will follow after—shopping for a honeymoon wardrobe with Philippa.
What kind of self-indulgent bullshit is that?
Even I cringe at my sour mood.
But I’m not nice when I’m hungry.
Or hungover.
And right now, I’m both.
But it’s for Philippa. She put together the apartment of my dreams; it’s the least I can do for her. I sigh, releasing my annoyance.
I catch my reflection in the glossy lobby doors—jeans, T-shirt, sneakers.
Casual and comfortable.
We couldn’t be more different.
Chalk and Cheese. Night and Day.
If I were to take a guess on what Philippa was going to wear today, my money’s on tweed. Pearls for sure. If Riley were here, we’d be placing bets—or at least a few shots—on it.
Shots. I shudder at the thought.
