Page 4 of Just Friends Forever
I sprint after her, catching up as she slows down for the cement pad around the pool. I, however, don’t slow as I wrap my arms around her and hurl us into the water, fully clothed. We surface seconds later, both gasping for air, huge smiles on our faces. There’s a split-second where I see her watch me, like she’s trying to gauge whether this is normal fun or flirting. So, I whip around and tackle my buddy, Adam, dunking him.
He never saw it coming. But he was a necessary sacrifice—one of many others over the course of the night, because that’s how I have to spend it, convincing Stevie—and myself—that I’m okay and that things aren’t weird now.
And when I get home, I gorge myself on casserole, just like I promised Mom I would do.
2
TROY
THE PRESENT DAY
The mirrorI’m using to help me dress rumbles slightly, accompanied by a muffled cry and a clatter in the apartment below mine. I smile with satisfaction.
“About time,” I say to no one. I’ve been waiting for that yelp for the last hour, and hearing it makes the sleep I sacrificed on last night’s adventure immediately worth it.
I whistle the tune of “Surprise, Surprise” by Bruce Springsteen as I put on my watch, stomping footsteps on the stairs to my apartment providing a decent background beat.
A few seconds later, the door to my room swings open.
“Good morning,” I say brightly, grabbing the brush and running it gently over my hair.
My brother Austin glares at me from the doorway, shirtless, in his boxers, his dark hair disheveled.
I glance at my watch and read the incoming text from the agent whose open house I’m running this afternoon in Bel Air. I’m really hoping I end up with at least one high-end client on my roster by the end of the day.
I slap the watch face to turn off the screen and look back at Austin, who’s still glaring at me. “What’s up?” I say.
He scoffs. “So innocent-sounding.”
I raise my brows, pretending not to know what he’s talking about. When he arrived with a stack of promotional postersanda life-size cardboard cutout of himself, there was only one viable option: stay up late one night and cover every inch of his apartment with them while he slept. I placed the cardboard cutout directly next to his bed for a special surprise when he woke up.
Rather than responding, I focus on making sure every last brown hair of mine is perfectly in place.
“That stupid thing scared me to death,” he says, stepping into the room. He’s been on tour as the opening act for James Arthur the last few months, so it’d been a while since I’d seen him when he showed up a few days ago. He looks good, as his five-hundred thousand social media followers can—and frequently do—attest to.
“Give yourself some credit, Aus. You’re pretty ugly, but you’re notthatbad to look at.”
“Har, har.” He catches a glimpse of himself in the black-rimmed mirror and runs a hand through his hair. “I thought it was a psycho fan or something at first, like that guy they found sleeping in Taylor Swift’s apartment.”
“Nope. Not a psycho fan.” I come up behind him and brace his shoulders with my hands so we’re both staring in the mirror. I give them a squeeze. “Just yourbiggestfan.” The fact that he’s comparing himself to Taylor Swift says a lot about how he sees himself.
He shoots me an annoyed look in the mirror. “Isn’t there a law against a landlord entering tenant property without notice?”
I frown, pretending to ponder the question as I button my sleeves. I shake my head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.” It does. But I didn’t go into his side of the duplex last night as a landlord. I went on brotherly duties. He has so many fans ready to fall down and worship him, I consider it my personal commission to mess with him. Keep him grounded.
“It’s not the only thing that doesn’t ring a bell,” he mutters. “How long did it take you to do all that?”
I shrug. “Twenty minutes for the posters, maybe. The cardboard cutout was quick once I saw how deeply you were sleeping. The hardest part was not laughing.”
He shakes his head and plops down on my perfectly made bed, rubbing his eyes.
In the last couple years, especially on this last tour, Austin’s music has brought him a lot of success. He’s the exciting, cool one in our family—cool enough to have fan merchandise. Merchandise with which he can be pranked. His manager sent it with him for the high school reunion gig he’s playing in a couple weeks. I helped him shove the stuff in the closet in his half of my duplex, but my mind immediately started exploring ideas for what I could do with it.
“You realize we have to leave in”—I check my watch—“eight minutes, right? Are you even packed?”
He sighs and stands up, stretching his arms above him and yawning. “I’ll be ready.”
* * *
