Page 7 of I'm sorry, Princess
“I can’t believe my best friend works for the FBI!” she squeals, practically bouncing in her seat as she steers the carlike she’s on a rollercoaster. “Oh my God, Serena, are you going to arrest me if I finally kill Knox?”
Her laugh is light, but I hear the sadness underneath. It’s like she’s painting over a cracked wall with glitter.
I try to meet her mood halfway.
“I don’t think I have the power to arrest anyone myself,” I say, half-laughing, reaching over to lower the volume, because at this point, I’m convinced Girl you loud have become the unofficial Manhattan anthem.
“But,” I smirk, “I could probably assess you and tell them you’re mentally unstable. Get your sentence reduced. Maybe a nice cozy room with padded walls? That work for you?”
She scoffs, flipping her wrist like the drama queen she is. “Oh please. I’ll do it without you knowing.”
Her eyes sparkle, but not from happiness, it’s her way of hiding how much Knox’s betrayal is eating her alive.
That’s how we both survive. We hide everything behind jokes.
Meanwhile, the song restarts for the third time, and Sienna starts dancing again, hips swaying in the seat, one hand on the wheel, one hand in the air, singing like her life depends on it.
We’re two girls in a baby pink Audi R8 Cabriolet, flying through the city, screaming the lyrics to Girl you loud, and yeah, we’re loud.
Loud enough to drown out the fact that our lives are slowly falling apart.
We order our usual.
For me, it’s always the same, decaf caramel latte with oat milk. Some people call it boring, but for me, it’s comfort.
Sienna, of course, goes for her signature matcha. She claims it’s for the antioxidants, but I think she just likes the color. Her cup always looks like it belongs in one of those aesthetically pleasing Pinterest boards.
As soon as the drinks arrive, we do what we always do, snap a few pictures for Instagram.
It’s our ritual. Our way of pretending life is simple, soft, and wrapped in moments like this. Two girls, coffee cups in hand, smiles for the camera.
I tilt my head, Sienna gives me a kiss on the cheek, and for a split second, the laughter is real.
She posts the photo with a caption that makes my chest ache in the best way:
“My bestie is better than yours.”
I know she means it. And deep down, I know she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Sienna is the human version of light.
But life doesn’t like letting you be happy for too long.
Our moment is cut short when the TV above the counter, usually playing some soft indie playlist, switches to breaking news.
The screen flashes red.
Lorenzo Giovanni Moretti arrested. Multiple charges. His face is all over the news.
“Damn, he’s hot,” Sienna says, eyes glued to the TV.
I can’t help but laugh at her reaction. That’s Sienna, no filter, no shame.
Her phone’s already out. Of course, she’s Googling him.
Two seconds later, she’s shoving a paparazzi beach photo in front of my face.
It’s him. Shirtless, messy dark brown hair, Greek God body, tattoos peeking from beneath his swim trunks and covering his arms.
I feel the heat crawl up my neck. Gosh. Why do the bad ones always have to look like that?
