Page 10 of Just Friends Forever
TROY
It was in Bel Air. No sign of the Fresh Prince or of Hilary Banks, so it was all a big, fat waste of time.
I dash a tear as I give a watery laugh. I’d totally forgotten about Troy’s love ofFresh Prince—and his crush on Hilary from the show—which is pretty amazing given how often we watched it. It might as well have been the soundtrack to his life. It was always playing in the background when we were at his house.
I chew on my lip. With the finalization of the divorce, I can actually go out in public on my own and speak freely—okay, not freely, butmorefreely—but the thought makes me cringe. If the decree is truly public record like my lawyer says, in twelve hours, the sidewalk in front of this building will be crawling with tabloid reporters, like ants swarming a crushed-up Club cracker.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as my heart races. Bel Air is so close. I could really use a friend right now, and Joyce won’t be back until Friday. That’s five interminably long days.
Tonight might be the only chance I have at normal for a while, and, as the virtual pet feeding reminder notifications on my phone can attest to, I am in dire need of normal.
I hesitate for one more second, then respond to Troy’s text.
4
TROY
I glanceat my phone secured to the dashboard, not because I need directions but just in case I missed a response from Stevie. I didn’t.
I should have responded sooner to her last text, but I was on the phone with the agent whose open house I ran. It’ll probably be three months until I hear from Stevie again. And by hear from her, I mean until I text her again.
I pull onto the 405 to head back home. Season three ofFresh Princeand a bag of microwave popcorn are calling my name. Maybe I can get cardboard Austin to bend at the waist so he can sit next to me and keep me company. Or maybe Lyla will get off work early.
STEVIE
I’m in LA! Are you still around? If so, come say hi!
I swerve across three lanes of traffic to the exit toward West Hollywood. A few honks accompany my super smooth move. It may seem desperate, but anyone who’s missed an exit in LA traffic knows how high the stakes are here.
I pull over once I’m off the freeway and text her back. Based on the picture Curtis posted, I assumed they were in Hawaii. She gives me her address—and oddly specific instructions about where to park (“specific” as in really far away) and what to say to the building concierge. Apparently, I’m supposed to say I’m there for “Mandy.” The lives of the rich and famous are fascinating.
As I approach her apartment building, my watch sends me a notification. “It looks like your heart rate is high. Keep an eye on it.”
“Shut up.” I smack the watch face with my palm, and it goes black. I haven’t seen Stevie since her wedding over three years ago. Of course I’m nervous. I never felt like Curtis was my number one fan either, and part of me has always wondered if Stevie’s scant text responses are a result of that.
The building concierge gives me a full body scan with his laser-sharp eyes when I say I’m there to see Mandy. I dressed to impress at my open house today, but I get the feeling my suit might as well have been purchased at a thrift shop for how obviously out of place I am here. I’m also regretting my choice to yank off my tie and undo my collar the second I got in my car. Apparently, I pass muster, though, since the concierge activates the elevator to take me up.
Even in the elevator, I feel like a peasant approaching the king’s throne. It’s sleek and minimalist, and it has just one option: the penthouse. The elevator opens to a small foyer with just one door. The mat in front of it is light gray. Who has a light-colored doormat? The message is clear: we don’t do dirt around here.
I take in a deep breath, then knock on the door, mentally preparing myself to be greeted by Curtis. He was a big deal when I met him, and he’s an even bigger deal now. His most recent movie made $150 million opening weekend. Do I congratulate him on that? Is that uncultured or good manners?
The door opens, and I freeze. Stevie and I stare, three seconds of silence for each of the three years since we last saw each other. Our built-in facial recognition software is doing a thorough scan, noting all the differences, mapping all the similarities that a decade of being best friends ingrained in us.
She’s every bit as beautiful as I remember her—and then some. She’s not done up like she is in most of the photos I see of her in the checkout aisle, and that’s a relief. She’s wearing a simple white shirt and lounge pants. Her hair is a lighter blonde than it used to be, and she’s a little thinner, but otherwise, I might think we were back in college.
Her gaze fixes somewhere behind me for a second. “Come in,” she says with a calm smile.
I glance over my shoulder until I spot it: the camera in the top corner of the foyer. I hesitate, then slip off my dress shoes since they’ve just walked the less-than-pristine streets and sidewalks of West Hollywood.
Stevie shuts the door behind me, and my eyes and ears search for any sign of Curtis. I’m not trying to antagonize him by showing up at his apartment. I’m just here to say hi to Stevie for a few minutes. But I don’t hear anything. Maybe he’s in the shower. Or the spa. Whatever method obscenely rich people use to clean the grime of the working world from their highly insured bodies.
“You’re here,” Stevie says, looking me over again in a way that’s foreign. Am I as different as she is? Or as much the same?
I smile and put out my hands, putting myself on display. “I’m here.”
She stares at me longer, chewing softly on her lip until I’m about to ask her why she’s acting so weird. Suddenly, she hurries over, throwing her arms around me and hugging me.
I blink, stunned as the scent of her hair—the pink Pureology shampoo she’s always sworn by—fills my senses. We’re in a new place, and it’s been years since we’ve seen each other, but that smell takes me back to everything familiar. I wrap my arms around her and return the embrace, only half-conscious of the fact that Curtis might appear any second.
