Page 80 of The Book Club Boyfriend
“Both,” I sigh, dropping onto her couch as if the weight of my feelings is physically too much to carry.
Harper returns with two glasses and a bowl of popcorn so aggressively buttered it could be illegal in some states. She hands me a glass, flops down beside me, and gives me The Look.
“Well?”
I press the glass to my forehead. “Graham is getting married.”
Her mouth falls open. “Graham… as intheGraham?”
“Do I have another emotionally scarring Graham in my past that I forgot to tell you about?”
She groans and slumps backward into the couch cushions. “Tell me everything. No—wait. Don’t. Actually, yes, do.”
I hold up my phone and open the Instagram post again. It’s still there, bright and shiny and smug.Can’t wait to marry my best friend.The ring, the sunset, the stupid matching smiles.
And the thing is—he looks good. Like,goodgood. And happy. And I guess I hate that.
Mature of me, I know.
I don’t hate it for him.
I hate it for me.
Harper reads it and makes a noise as if she’s being personally attacked. “He wears pink now? That is NOT his aesthetic.”
“Right?” I throw my arm dramatically across my face. “He looks like an extra in a Hallmark movie.”
“Well,” she says, sipping her wine, “if you’re the one who got away, she’s definitely the one who got… suckered?”
I laugh, just once—a weak little sound that gets stuck in my throat.
“I don’t know why it hit me so hard,” I say after a beat. “I don’t want him. I haven’t wanted him in forever. We broke up three years ago. But seeing that post just—ugh. It felt like someone punched me.”
Harper nods. “Yeah, it’s not abouthim. It’s about what it stirred up.”
“Exactly.” I take a long sip of wine. “What if it wasn’t just him? What if I’m the problem? What if I don’t know how to do any of this, and I’ve just spent the last few years convincing myself I didn’t want it because I was too afraid to try again?”
Harper sets her glass down and gives me a long, unreadable look. “Scarlett…”
I look at her. “Don’t say it.”
“I’m gonna say it.”
“Harper—”
“You’re scared.”
I groan. “I hate you.”
She just smiles and hands me a tissue. “No, you don’t.”
I sniff. “Maybe a little.”
“I’ll take it. Now drink your wine and cry it out. You’re allowed to have a meltdown, okay? Just don’t forget who the hell you are when it’s over.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
I sip my wine and ponder Harper’s words.
