Page 75 of Love Me Stalk Me
The second the door closes, Amanda whirls on me, eyes gleaming with a mixture of concern and excitement, like she can't decide whether to comfort me or interrogate me first.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?"
I drop into my chair, suddenly exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of the past hour. "Amanda?—"
"No," she says, cutting me off, marching toward me with determination. "Don't even try to play it off. That was A Moment. Capital M Moment. The kind of moment they write about in those books you pretend not to read."
"There was no moment." I try to keep my voice steady, convincing.
"There was absolutely a moment." She throws herself onto the couch like she's settling in for a drama series, crossing her legs and leaning forward, elbows on her knees. "Okay, give me the rundown. What the fuck happened out there? I heard bits and pieces, but I need the full story. From the beginning. Leave nothing out."
I rub my temples, feeling a headache forming behind my eyes. The pressure of my fingertips offers momentary relief. "I do not have the emotional capacity to relive it."
"Too bad, because I need every detail. And I can see from your face that something major went down, so spill."
I groan but give her the short version, summarizing Evan's behavior, Monroe's comments, and Cal's intervention. I leave out the part about crying in my office and about Cal's revelation about his ex-fiancée. Some things feel too private, too raw to share, even with Amanda. My words feel inadequate against the reality of what happened, like trying to describe a hurricane by talking about rain.
By the end of it, she looks like she's about to commit an actual felony, her expression shifting from shocked to outraged to vengeful in rapid succession. Her perfectly manicured nails dig into the couch cushion.
"Evan is a disease," she says, throwing her hands up in disgust. "A full-body, skin-rotting disease, and I need him removed from this earth."
I snort despite myself, a small laugh escaping at her dramatic phrasing. "Okay, dramatic."
"No, I'm serious," she insists, sitting forward on thecouch. "He's like—the human equivalent of long COVID. Persistent, exhausting, and still somehow ruining lives years later."
I groan, dropping my head into my hands, but there's a smile tugging at my lips now. Amanda has always been able to make me laugh, even in my darkest moments. "Amanda?—"
"Like, they said he would only be around for two weeks, but here we are, three years later, still dealing with the symptoms."
"Okay, seriously?—"
"I bet if we check the CDC website right now, there's a booster shot specifically for Evan's bullshit."
"Amanda."
"We just need to find a Walgreens doing walk-ins. I'll drive. I'll even hold your hand if you're scared of needles."
"Oh my God, please stop." I shake my head, burying it into my hands before laughing despite everything. Amanda has always had this effect on me—the ability to make me laugh even in my darkest moments, to pull me back from the edge of despair with her ridiculous analogies and unwavering loyalty. Her presence is like sunshine after a storm, bright and necessary.
"You know I'm right."
I look up at her through one cracked eye. "Maybe let's try an emotionally healthy approach to dealing with it."
"Emotionally healthy?" She snorts, tossing her hair over her shoulder, the blonde strands catching the light. "Okay, therapist, I have a better idea—revenge."
My mind immediately runs through four different scenarios of what Amanda considers "revenge," calculating exactly how each would backfire and what it would take to bail her out of jail. The mental risk assessment is automatic—another skill honed from years of managing her chaos, of being the voice of reason to her impulsivity. The possibilities range from mildly embarrassing to federally criminal.
I groan, already dreading whatever she's about to suggest. "Amanda?—"
"No, listen. Here's what we're gonna do."
"I already don't like it."
"We are going out tonight."
I’m surprised by the simplicity of the suggestion. "What?"
"Girls' night. You, me, margaritas the size of our heads, and a pile of tortilla chips so big we legally have to sign a waiver before consuming them."
