Page 17 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
“Could’ve fooled me based on last Friday’s history.”
I throw a pillow at her. “Rude.”
“But accurate.” She dodges the pillow with practiced ease. “Look, I’ll sweeten the deal. Tacos for a straight week if you come tonight.”
“You actually agreed to a month.”
“Two weeks, but only for Taco Tuesday. And I’ll paint your nails every day.”
It’s tempting but not tempting enough to drag myself out of my comfortable cave of denial. “Nope. Still sick. Might be contagious.”
Maddie’s eyes narrow, and I recognize the shift in her expression. She’s moving to DefCon 2: emotional manipulation.
“Remember Christmas two years ago when grandma cornered you about when you were getting married to Bobby and whether you’d gained weight, and I faked having a sudden, excruciating toothache so you could sneak out early?”
I groan and cover my face with my hands. “Low blow, Mads.”
“Yeah, well, this is my toothache moment. You owe me.”
And damn it, she’s right. Grandma had been in rare form that Christmas, armed with unsolicited life advice and passive-aggressive comments about my togetherness with Bobby. Maddie’s dramatic dental emergency had been the perfect escape route.
“I hate this,” I mumble through my fingers. “Don’t make me do this!”
“No, you don’t. You love this, which is why you’re going to put on one of these dresses and come be social with me.”
Before I can protest further, she’s off the bed and attacking my closet like a woman possessed. I watch in horror as she rejects outfit after outfit with muttered commentary.
“Too nun-like.” A cardigan gets tossed aside.
“Too funeral.” My black blazer joins the growing reject pile.
“Too ‘I’ve given up on life.’” There goes my favorite hoodie.
“Hey!” I sit up indignantly. “That hoodie is so cute.”
“That hoodie has holes and stains and needs to be trashed.”
She continues her rampage until she finally emerges victorious, holding up a fitted black sweater and dark jeans. “This. With the knee-high boots. Sexy but approachable.”
“I’m not approachable.”
“Exactly why you need the sweater to soften your resting murder face.”
I burst out laughing. “I do not have a resting murder face.”
“Harper, you once made a guy at Starbucks apologize for existing just by looking at him.”
“He was taking forever to order! There were people behind him!”
“You made him cry.”
“I did not make him cry.”
Maddie gives me a look that clearly says she’s not buying it. “Put on the sweater, Harper. Think of it as community service. You’ll be saving one poor college boy from an evening of disappointment.”
Ten minutes later, I’m standing in front of my mirror wearing the black sweater, jeans, and boots combo that Maddie selected. She’s done something to my hair that makes it look effortlessly tousled instead of like I’ve been lying in bed for three hours, and somehow convinced me to put on makeup that’s subtle enough to look natural but polished enough to suggest I actually tried.
“See?” she says, beaming at me in the mirror like she’s just performed a miracle. “You look like a functioning human being.”
