Page 53 of Just Friends Forever
She’s not the only one around, though. I sigh at the number of paps hanging out on the sidewalk. They’ve been joined by a few fans, some of whom have brought camp chairs and posterboard. Oh, joy. The pressure washer is looking really tempting again. Last time, it led to a headline fiasco, but I have my shirt on now.
But I think Stevie’s right. Doing stuff that aggressive is like spraying a hornet. It just makes them mad and more determined to sting. I don’t want Stevie to be the one getting hurt.
The paparazzi are already pelting me with questions before I even crack my car door open. It’s all the usual stuff—questions about my “alleged” girlfriend, as they call her, about my history with Stevie, about how she feels seeing her ex moving on with his former co-star.
I almost shout, “Get a job!” until I realize thisistheir job—to skirt the line between journalism and stalking. Stevie and I are their prey.
They’re going home hungry because today, I’m taking the wombat approach.
I’d never even heard of a wombat until last night, but I could be considered the local expert after using the Discovery channel to distract me from thoughts of Stevie. Wombats’ backsides are the closest thing to buns of steel in nature. When threatened, they crawl into their hole and plug it up with their rear. It doesn’t matter how much the predator scratches and claws; the wombat’s butt can take it.
I’m not planning on literally plugging up my front door with my derriere—it would take a lot more glute workouts to make that possible, and I have a feeling the pictures and headlines might make me regret it—but I’m taking all of their stupid questions and letting them bounce off my buns of steel.
I walk rather than jog to the door, even though I’m anxious to get inside and see Stevie. Opening up my news app to the headlineMan can’t bear two hours away from his so-called best friendwouldn’t be a good look.
I shut the exterior door, and the din of questions turns muffled and much more bearable. It’s white noise now.
I hesitate in the foyer, wanting to knock on Stevie’s door to say hi and see how things are going but realizing that’s also crazy.
I turn the knob on my own door just as hers opens.
“There you are!” Stevie says. “We need you.”
I look behind myself, then back to Stevie, raising my brows and pointing to my chest.
“Yes, you,” she says, pulling me by the hand toward her apartment.
I laugh, feeling as giddy as a schoolboy being chased by his crush. She pulls me down the stairs, letting go of my hand just as we reach the bottom.
Maggie is sitting on the floor, a few Styrofoam containers in front of her.
“We ordered way too much food,” Stevie says, “and we need you to make sure it doesn’t get wasted.”
I frown. “What am I, your garbage disposal?”
“Salve for our consciences,” Maggie says, smiling widely and scooting over to make room for me. “I hate wasting food, but I also don’t love leftovers. It’s a conundrum.”
“Same,” Stevie says. “But if you don’t want it, maybe some of the paparazzi outside will.”
“Over my dead body.” I rub my hands together and scope out the options. “What’ve we got here?”
Stevie points to the containers one by one. “Garlic naan, cheese naan, tikka masala, butter chicken, black daal, and chicken biryani.”
I raise my brows. “What groupwereyou ordering for?”
“We couldn’t decide and got a little carried away.” Stevie freezes. “Oh! I’ll go get your hot sauce.”
I watch her leave, a little smile on my face. She knows not having hot sauce next to me at a meal makes me feel all sorts of wrong.
“How are you, Maggie?” I break off some garlic naan and dip it in the masala.
“Really good,” she says. “Glad I came—and glad I ran into you guys in the first place.”
“Me too,” I say between bites. “Stevie’s been stuck with me and only me for so long, she was going crazy.”
“Lies,” Stevie calls out as she returns.
I shoot a look at Maggie and shake my head subtly.
