Page 48 of Bottle Shock
NOT THRIVING
I’ve made some rash decisions in my life—moved in with a guy I’d known for a week (total disaster), bought those overpriced bootsbecause they were on saleeven though I couldn’t afford them—spoiler alert, they were uncomfortable as hell, and I never wore them again. I’ve given myself a post-breakup haircut (don’t recommend), snuck into a concert and totally got caught. Luckily, the charges were dropped—probably out of pity more than anything.
I’m the girl who does it for the plot.
But never, not even in my most impulsive moments, did I imagine pretending to be someone’s wife off-stage. And definitely not with my best friend’s brother.
Speaking of Elyse, we never actually clarified whether we’d be letting her in on our little secret.
Personally, I’d prefer not to. Not because I don’t trust her—or because I want to hide anything—but because she’d one hundred percent assume there’s more to this arrangement than just pretending so Gavin can get the house. And if she thought there were even theslightesthint of feelings involved, she’d be all for it.
It’s our literal dream to be sisters, and if she thought her brother and I might end up together, that’s close enough to count. And honestly? I love that for us. What I don’t love is the inevitable humiliation I’ll feel when she starts playing matchmaker and Gavin hits me with a big, fat rejection.
There’s no universe where he’d actually want to be with me. He’s calm water, and I’m the aftermath of a hurricane.
We don’t mix.
Still, that doesn’t stop me from overthinking every detail of this arrangement—or from staring at my phone like it might offer divine guidance.
After a full minute of debating whether to call, I settle on a text. It feels safer. Less likely to expose how my pulse goes haywire every time his name lights up my screen.
Question…
His reply is quick.
Gavin
Go for it.
Are we telling Elyse?
Gavin
Do you want to tell Elyse?
Not particularly…but she’s your sister. If you don’t want to keep secrets from her, then I understand.
Gavin
Let’s keep it between us. Actually, if it’s alright with you, I’d prefer we didn’t tell anyone.
I wanted this to stay between us. I’m the one who said so. But some small, stubborn part of me is still disappointed, like I’m the one being hidden—not the arrangement itself.
I couldn’t agree more.
I toss my phone aside and flop onto the couch. Reminded once again it’s the most uncomfortable couch known to man.
My parents are off somewhere, because unlike me, they have a very bustling social life. They’ve recently picked up all these new hobbies I had no idea about.
My dad is the president of their HOA. My mom joined a knitting club that meets everyThursday to “unwind,” which I’m pretty sure is code for cheap wine and neighborhood gossip. Together they play bunco with the Bennetts, golf with the Garcias, go on trivia nights with the Coopers, and somehow still manage to run half the rental properties in town.
Meanwhile, I’m here. Not thriving.
Later that evening, my face is washed and I’ve crawled into my pajamas, ready to call it a night. My hair is damp from the shower, smelling of my favorite orange blossom shampoo, and I’m curled under a fuzzy blanket. The house is quiet except for the steady flow of air coming through the vents. I scroll aimlessly through streaming options, too undecided to actually commit to anything, when I hear the front door open.
Laughter. Voices. Several of them.
Shit.
