Page 33 of Just Friends Forever
“I got this.” Troy heads for the stairs, his hands positioned in karate Back Stance as he heads for the door like he’s preparing to fight off Mafia bosses instead of grab a bag of food.
I can’t help the way my muscles tighten when he opens the door, but there are no blinding flashes or clicking sounds. I let out a breath and relax my shoulders, smiling as Troy holds up the bag of food.
Every bit as important to me as Troy’s yellow belt in karate is his complete steadiness. I’ve been a terrible friend to him the last few years. In fact, I’ve been a terrible friend toeveryone. Troy’s dependability and his assurances he’ll keep me safe are something I’ve done nothing to deserve but am entirely depending on right now.
11
STEVIE
It’s oddlydifficult to sleep when there’s a strange car parked outside your house. It’s not like this is my first run-in with paparazzi, but it feels different this time. Curtis might have complained about the constant presence of the media in our lives, but the better I got to know him, the more I realized how disappointed he would have been if theyhadbacked off.
Just like everything about dating and marrying Curtis, it was exciting for me in the beginning. The media really seemed to like me—which I’ve since realized was pure luck, given how capricious they can be—and all the attention was flattering.
After a while, though, it started to wear on me. That’s what happens when you can’t sneeze without people speculating whether you’re part of the Illuminati.
I throw off my covers, figuring I may as well be productive and do a load of wash. It’s earlier than I usually wake up. When you live alone for so long, there’s not much reason to wake up early. I pause in the doorway of my room with an armful of laundry. The light filtering through the side gaps in the curtains is glowy and warm.
I look down at what I’m holding—a pile of dirty clothes. It’s not glamorous, and it’s a far cry from the life I lived for a few years, in which I went to sleep late, woke up to a breakfast prepared by Curtis’s personal chef, and clean clothes magically appeared in my closet. But I kind of love this normal life stuff.
I load my clothes into the washer and pour in the detergent, wishing Troy could see how adept I am at these basic life skills.
A clanking sound catches my attention just as I’m about to start the load. It happens again, and I press the button before moving over to the small window in the laundry room.
I push the curtain to the side and still at the sight of Troy. He’s got a dumbbell in each hand and is pumping them, a look of concentration on his face as he blows out a breath each time he pulls them toward his chest. Maybe it’s the angle, but his biceps are… substantial. And they’re not the only thing he works out based on his shirtless physique.
I’ve seen Troy without a shirt on a lot of times in my life—anytime we went swimming, whenever he and the guys played shirts and skins in soccer or football, and the time he was taking weightlifting his junior year and took off his shirt at a barbecue to impress Emily Johnson.
But that was then and this is now. This man is, well, a man. He’s obviously been taking very good care of himself. Maybe I sneered prematurely at his freeze-dried eggs. Apparently, he also wakes up with the sun to work out, and the sunrise looks good on him.
Really good.
I blink and draw back slightly. Am I checking out Troy? No.
Nope, nope, nope.
Noticing he’s a very well-formed human specimen isn’t checking him out, is it? It’s a completely objective scientific observation. It may walk like a duck and talk like a duck, but it can’t be a duck. I refuse to acknowledge the duck. People don’t check out their best friends, and Ijustgot divorced. Yes, the marriage was over long before it became official, but still.
I don’t want to follow in Mom’s footsteps, and I’m already on that path. I always thought I’d be different, that I’d do everything right and make sure my marriage lasted, but so far, the apple isn’t falling far from the tree.
Troy racks the dumbbells, and I squint to see the numbers on the sides, but the window isn’t clean enough to allow me such an indulgence. A scientific curiosity, I mean.
He drags a hand through his hair, and the familiarity of the gesture makes me smile. His body may look more Tarzan-like than it used to, but he’s still the same old Troy. He’s my best friend, and I need him in that capacity—and only that capacity.
He has a girlfriend now anyway. It’s her job to check him out, not mine, and based on the way she holds onto his arm when she’s with him, she’s well aware of the similarities he and Tarzan share.
I shut the curtain before Troy can start on his triceps. A woman can only watch a man workout so many -ceps before she goes into -ceptic shock.
Wow. I shouldn’t make jokes before 7 a.m.
I leave my laundry to do its thing while I tend to my increasingly neglected pets and get cleaned up. As I’m putting on my makeup, not thinking about Troy, I hear a new sound. I strain my ears to identify it and realize it’s muffled voices outside.
I make my way to the window in the living room that looks toward the front lawn. Troy’s been working with a landscaper this week, so it’s probably them discussing plans. My coming to check has nothing to do with Troy or any hope I might catch sight of him again. I’m just being a good tenant. I should have one of thoseneighborhood watchstickers on the window.
I pull back the curtain and find myself looking at a man in the driveway. He’s a dozen feet away with a long, black lens pointed toward my window.
I jump back and stare at the closed curtain, my heart thumping like I just got jabbed in the chest with a shot of adrenaline. My breath comes in quick, shallow gulps. Did I imagine it? Maybe last night’s dreams have crept into my waking hours.
I use my trembling finger to move the curtain the tiniest bit possible—just a sliver of a view.
