Page 130 of Butter My Biscuit

She meets my eyes. “Aren’t most love songs? They’re all tragedies in three and a half minutes or less. It’s why breakup songs are so popular.”

“That’s the one Remi was singing months ago.” Then, I remember the conversation we had. “I’ll help you go viral. If you want that. You blew my mind the other night. Likeproud bubbamoment.”

Her mouth falls open and she squeals, and it makes me jump. “Yes, thank you. I’ve been trying so hard, but if I had a thirst trap …”

“Consider it done. Anyway, this was a good talk. Maybe you can play at my rehearsal dinner?”

This makes her laugh. “I don’t think breakup songs the night before your wedding is the vibe you’re going for. But thanks. I’ll let you make it up to me later.”

“No hard feelings?” I ask.

She gives me a hug. “Nah.”

As I hunch over, nearly hitting my head on the top of the tree house, London stops me.

“Oh, there is one more teeny-tiny thing.”

“Yeah?” I look at her.

“I found this in here, and I’m pretty sure it’s for you,” she says, handing me a folded-up note.

“Huh?”

She shakes her head. “Read it later.”

“Where was it?”

“Under a board in a small pirate treasure chest with a friendship bracelet.”

I laugh, tapping it on the wood floor. “Okay. Thanks. See you at the rehearsal dinner next week?”

She nods and begins strumming again. “I’m in love with you, and I always will be,” she sings in perfect pitch, then waves goodbye with a pink guitar pick between her fingers.

“That might be your first hit.”

She laughs. “We’ll see.”

29

GRACE

“Ican’t believe we’re at the rehearsal dinner,” Remi says, looking around the open space that’s been transformed into a wedding venue in record time before she eyes me.

She’s wearing a pink pantsuit, and I’m certain she eats men for breakfast. No one can convince me otherwise.

Moments later, she stretches out her arms and squeezes me tight. I grab on to her, trying not to cry.

“I thought you said you’re not a hugger.”

“I’m not, but”—she shakes her head—“you need one.”

“Please don’t make my emotions spill over,” I tell her.

We’ve never talked about it, but we don’t have to for her to know what this has done to me. We’re roommates. She sees me in my rawest form.

She pats me. “No man is worth tears. Because why?”

“Because we’re independent women,” I repeat.

---