Never Say Yes To Your Best Friend (I said Yes)

1. Evilla

Chapter one

Evilla

E villa (Pronounced Eve-ay-lah because my parents had no notion that a name could cause me SO many problems throughout my entire freaking life.)

“I didn’t know meringues have eggs in them! How was I supposed to know that?” Gen, my best friend, screeches.

“Sweetheart, I think everyone knows that,” I say to her.

Gen’s face turns murderous and thunderous. A very large red welt stands out on her forehead, and there are two that look horribly itchy on her neck. She jams a finger up at the welt on her forehead but doesn’t scratch it. “I didn’t do this on purpose. I could have freaking died!”

“I’m glad you had your pen with you.”

“I didn’t need the pen. I just took some allergy pills fast, and they worked. I would have extra died if I had to stab myself in the leg in front of everyone.”

“I’m glad you’re okay. Or that you’re going to be. But you could just cancel the date and reschedule.”

Genevieve storms across her expansive living room. A person could probably run a marathon in here and still not reach the other side. As far as grad gifts go, this was a good one. We might be in Tampa and not New York, but rent and real estate are still expensive. I’m never going to own a house, and I’ve made my peace with that. Home ownership sucks anyway. Who wants to constantly be sinking all their hard-earned savings into fixing a leaky roof, spending all their free time unclogging gutters, or worrying about the central air crapping out or the fridge going on the fritz?

Gen doesn’t have to worry about those things. She has so much money because her parents have so much money, and when anything stops working, they’re either replaced or fixed by people who know what they’re doing.

Gen is a hot blonde. Naturally. She’s gorgeous. Her parents might be super rich, but she’s actually pretty down to earth. She might like her car and condo, but she goes for natural in every other way. She has a killer body—she always did—even before she had a personal trainer. Not only that, but she makes all her own meals because she loves cooking. She’s also kind and smart, and she’s a great best friend—she has been ever since we met in kindergarten. Her parents getting rich and mine not getting so rich never changed the fundamental core of our friendship.

“It’s just a bad idea. I didn’t want to go in the first place.” Gen flops down on the couch. It’s strangely super hairy, and it kind of resembles a mossy boulder. It swallows her up. She grinds her face into it, then pops back up and scratches the giant hive on her forehead. “Argh! My parents. I can’t believe they did this to me.”

I love Gen to death, but she does have a penchant for bright green that I find to be a little too much. Everything in this place is a shade of neon or chartreuse except the floors. You should see the bathroom, though. It turns out you can get any color of tile, sink, and toilet on the planet if you have the money to pay for it. They’re not even vintage finds as a throwback to when green and pink tubs were hot stuff.

My bare feet make tracks through the fuzzy shag lime green rug as I make my way over to the couch. I sit down beside her on the thing that looks like it came right out of some forest. Then, I stroke her hair. God, it’s so soft. Expensive shampoo and conditioner and trips to a good salon do wonders, though I wouldn’t know about that. My strawberry hair—and I use that term with a grain of salt because it’s more of a coppery red on my best day—wouldn’t know anything about splurging since I don’t treat my hair to spa days. I can’t afford them.

“I hate to ask this, but are you sure you didn’t know about the eggs thing?”

“I didn’t! I didn’t eat them just so I wouldn’t have to go on this horrible blind date my parents set up with his parents.” She scratches at the hives on her arm. “I would never do this to myself. I’m going to be itching for the rest of the night, and I look like a monster.”

“You don’t look like a monster.” I smooth her hair but quickly make adjustments when I realize I’m actually stroking the hairy couch by mistake. “And I’m sure he’ll understand that you have to reschedule.”

“I don’t want to reschedule. I can’t believe my parents did this. They’ve never acted all rich people spoiled and stuff, but this is a rich person thing to do. This guy is just looking for a wife who doesn’t annoy him to death, someone to carry on his rich ass bloodline. That’s it. He doesn’t give two donkey arses about connection or romance.”

“I don’t think that’s a rich person thing. I think rich people care about loving and being loved as well.”

“Okay, maybe, but he doesn’t,” Gen replies with a sigh.

“You do. And that’s all that’s important.”

“So how could my parents do this to me? This is all because my mom started doing the country club thing last year. She meets all these other rich women, and nice or not, things get out of hand. Like this. Dates get set up, and weddings get planned. They’ve probably already picked out names for their grandkids.” She slams her hands over her eyes.

“I was kind of surprised when you told me she’d set you up on a blind date,” I admit. “I don’t think it’s right, but it’s just a few hours. You just have to go and get it over with. Just act positively unlikable. Then he won’t want a second date, and there won’t be any babies, bloodlines, marriage of the season weddings, or trophy wife status.”

Gen starts to sniffle—she always did like a good oxymoron—but then her bright blue eyes sweep up to me. “Can you go on the date for me?”

“What?!” The mossy boulder couch is just barely deep enough to keep me from flying off the end.

Not the deep end, thankfully, although I’ve had enough of that in my life over the past few years. Just the armless end.

“You could just pretend you’re me for a few hours.” Oh no. Gen’s using the sad, puppy dog, wheedling tone. “You could be terrible and make him not like you. It would be funny.”

“Babe! Just reschedule. You said he’s gone through like thirty dates already. It wouldn’t take much to make him not like you. He sounds fussy as fussy gets.”

“No! I can’t risk it! I’ll clam up, and then I won’t say anything at all, which will be just what he wants. Then he’ll be calling me for date two, and my mom will go out and buy baby name books, and my fate will be sealed. You know me. I can’t be awful to anyone, and I’m a terrible actress. He’ll like me. I just know it. And that will be the end of me.”

“You could just tell him you’re not interested.”

“That won’t work!” Gen has pink flats on, and she kicks her one foot out so hard that the flat flies off her foot and lands smack dab in the middle of the hairy green rug. “He’d just start listing reasons why we make a good team. He’d probably say we don’t need to like each other and that we just need to get along. Then, I’d protest, and he’d make another list, one that involves my parents and guilt and how this is best for everyone, and it will work out. And somehow, I’ll get talked into it.”

I don’t want to admit it, but Genevieve does have the softest soul of anyone I’ve ever met. It’s a great thing, but she’s the kind of person who gives scam callers money out of the goodness of her heart. I’m serious. It’s happened like five times. She also donates tons of money to many charities and spends most of her free time volunteering. I use the word free time lightly because she’s a nurse.

Who obviously should have known about there being eggs in meringues.

She’s really an amazing human being. I can see her getting talked into a blind date and not being able to talk her way out of it because she doesn’t want to hurt or displease anyone.

“I can’t do that. I can’t pretend I’m you.” Does it make me a terrible person that playing a hypothetical blind date out in my head with me as Gen and ruining it in the most spectacular fashion makes me want to laugh? I guess not because that’s just me imagining a good rom-com moment. It’s not real. It’s not going to be real.

I’ve had precious little to laugh about in my love life over the past two years. After being horribly betrayed by a jerkface—there really is no other term for a fiancé who meets someone selling sunflowers at a market one afternoon and then runs off to Europe with them the next day, never to return—I did what any normal person would do. I went through the first stages of denial. I got angry and bitter, I shut down and felt nothing for a long time, and eventually, I got on with life the best I could while feeling like a thousand years older than I really am.

“You could! Please, Evie! I need this. I need this so badly. If you don’t do this, I’m finished.”

“Goodness. You’re not finished.”

Her tear-stained eyes say otherwise. There’s real fear in them. And panic. Shit , she totally ate those meringues on purpose. “I’ll do something for you in exchange. I’ll do anything you want.”

“I don’t want anything. I’m perfectly happy.” Well, not perfectly happy, but close enough, I guess. “You should just tell your parents that you’re not going on the date because of the hives, and you’re not rescheduling. You want to live your own life, meet someone, fall in love, and get married for zero other reasons except that they’re the only one you can imagine spending the rest of your life with.”

“Oh god.” She covers her face with her hands. “God, these hives are itchy. I’m dying by not scratching them.”

“You could smack them a little. I think that works,” I tell her, and she opens her palm and smacks herself on the forehead. Hard. I grasp her hand and hold it tight between my own. “Not that way, and not that hard.”

“I’ll talk to Mike. I’ll make sure you get that promotion you want.”

Ugh. Double ugh. All the ugh. I’m not going there. This is my bestie here. There isn’t a single thing she doesn’t know about me, but I still wish I could get sucked into the hairy green hole of this mossy couch, never to return again. “You got me the job. You can’t ask Mike to give me the promotion, too. It would feel like favors. It would feel like…like I don’t deserve it.”

I’ve been working my butt off at Mike’s family pudding company for three years, ever since I was fresh out of college. Gen’s family knew their family, so she worked her magic, someone pulled strings, and I got a pretty good gig in the research and marketing department. Glamorous Pudding in Twenty-Seven Flavors is technically the company’s incorporated name, but every year, the tally goes up. Right now, the flavor count is at ninety-nine, and the hundredth one matters a lot. It does. It’s basically the centennial pudding flavor.

In three years, I’ve worked my way from a junior marketing position to near the top. Stephanie Abbergale retired last month, leaving one of the senior positions open. I might be young, and I might only have been with the company for three years, but I know I’m perfect for it.

I’ve never once called in sick. Ever.

And I haven’t taken any vacation time.

I’m not trying to brag, but the Deep Fried Dill Pickles, Bubble Gum & Cherry Milkshake Had a Baby, and Golden Brown Buttered Toast puddings were our bestsellers last year, and they were all flavors I proposed on my own.

Our head office is in a huge building downtown. There are factories all over the place that make the puddings, but we have a lab on the huge main floor that does all the new product development and testing. I got to play with the recipes for those puddings myself. I pitched the flavors and was a major player in the marketing of them, and I’d already done a huge portion of market research before I even brought those flavors to the table.

“I’m not saying you haven’t worked so freaking hard for it,” Gen corrects herself. “You have. That’s the point. I’m good friends with Mike. We went to high school together, and he likes me.” She flushes slightly and quickly looks away, pretending she isn’t getting pink-cheeked.

Internal alarms start blaring in my brain. Does she have a crush on Mike? I know he’s single. He’s also very involved in the business, practically married to it. Maybe Gen knows that. But maybe she likes him anyway. Maybe she’s scared of rejection, so she’ll never say anything, or maybe the timing just isn’t right. Whatever it is, I can see she doesn’t want to go down that road.

“That’s exactly why I don’t want you to do that. If I get the promotion, I want it to be just me, on my own terms. Does that make sense?”

“It does, but I’m scared HR will choose someone who basically sucks just because they’ve been there longer. That’s how it always works. If I talk to Mike, he’d make it happen. He knows you’re brilliant. We had lunch a few months ago with our parents, and he talked about pudding the whole time, but he couldn’t stop saying how brilliant you were and how many amazing things you’ve done for the company. He was so happy that I recommended you when you could have gone anywhere with all that kickassery.”

“Jesus. You didn’t tell me that.”

“I know. Because, look, you’re getting all embarrassed.”

“If he thinks that, then I’ll get the job. I’ve already applied. He knows I want it.”

“He might let HR talk him into giving it to someone else because of the seniority thing, or because they might think you’re too young, or blah, blah, blah. I know if I press on it, though, he’ll fight for you.”

“He should do that anyway if he believes I’m right for the job.”

“He’s busy. He has lots going on—a pudding empire to run. I think sometimes things slip through the cracks when people get so overwhelmed with work. He might just leave the decision-making to HR because it totally slipped his mind. But I’ll make sure it doesn’t. I’ll put it at the forefront. I would never say anything that would be me pressuring him to do you a favor. You deserve it. I just want to make sure it’s highlighted on the front page of his brain.”

“If I don’t go on this horrific blind date for you, would you still do that?”

Gen doesn’t even pause. “Of course.”

“Then what’s the motivation?” I don’t mean to laugh, but a giggle slips out. She smiles at me, too, not offended in the least.

“You’re my best friend, and you looooooove me and don’t want to see me unhappy for the rest of my life because I can’t grow a spine and tell anyone no until it’s too late?”

“Ugh, you need to tell your parents no.”

“I will. I promise. I’ll talk to them. I’ll tell them that they can’t do this again. I’ll tell them that this is my life. I’ll make my mom promise not to get ahead of herself again. That’s the main problem. She doesn’t see this as being some kind of terrible marriage. She sees it as being a matchmaker, and she’s sure we’ll be a good match based on—I’m not even sure—but she thinks it will all work out, and we’ll fall head over heels and have this amazing happy ending. I’ll make her see that I have to choose that for myself, and blind dates aren’t the way.”

“Okay.”

“Okay meaning you will?” Gen sits up, and I wince as I see those extremely red and swollen hives on her neck and forehead. Ouch. So much ouch. She put herself through hell to get out of this. I know she did. I don’t know when she came up with the plan to ask me to go on her behalf instead. It’s a terrible idea, and I doubt it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.

“Okay, as in, I’m glad you’ll talk to your mom,” I groan. “Not saying okay to going on a date with Mr. Rich Pants.”

“His name is Mont. Mont Montfield.”

“Are you freaking serious?”

“Yes.” She tires not to giggle, but her hand over her mouth just makes her face redder as she holds it in. “His full name is Bergamont.”

“Like the spice?’

“That’s bergamot.”

“Oh,” I mumble.

“At least you have that in common. You both have different names.”

“You mean names we both detest.”

“No, I mean names that other people get wrong all the time.”

I have to cede the point on that one.

“Anyway, we look nothing alike.” I’m not saying yes. I’m not going to do this for her because I love this woman so much. She’s way too soft and sweet for this world, and she’s like a sister to me. I’d do anything to protect her. But this?

Gen perks up, looking hopeful for the first time all night. “It doesn’t matter. You know how after we had money, my parents insisted that I had to be extra careful, especially about social media and stuff.”

“They just wanted to be like regular people.”

“Other than my mom starting to go to the country club, they have been. As much as I hated them for not letting me be like everyone else, it’s a good thing I have almost zero online presence. We’re boring rich people, not celebrities. No one wants to take our photo. We just blend in. I doubt anyone would know what I look like.”

“I’m sure your mom said you’re gorgeous, tall, blonde, a total ten, a freaking knockout…”

“There are these things called wigs. And you’re not short. You’re five-nine. I’m only an inch taller than you and a bit curvier, but I doubt she went into detail about bra cup size.”

“Oh my lord.”

“We don’t look that dissimilar ,” she insists, and oh, freaking no. She’s getting that look on her face. Her typical this is a super bad idea, but it’s going to happen anyway, and it’s going to be fun look. “I could make it work. Full-on amazing ass makeover in a few hours. You could go tonight and ruin the date. You’re good at that.”

“Gen!”

“I mean…” Panic. Full-on panic mode. “Oh shit. I just meant you’re sassy and smart, and you could make this work in a second. You never get flustered. You have the strongest personality, and you’re tough. I didn’t mean that you did anything. That…that was all the name of the man we shall never speak of again because he’s not worth remembering. ”

“You can say it,” I tell her with a sigh. It’s funny how time just makes thicker skin grow over wounds, but the healing is all wrong. I sometimes wish I could go back to those six months when I didn’t feel anything at all. When I was so shocked and numbed out, scooped out, wrecked out, and hollowed out, that I couldn’t cry or laugh or scream or rage. There was nothing. Just this flatline going on inside myself. But I’m not flatlining now. Part of me still wants to go find a punching bag and make it pay while I utter obscenities. “Jeff.”

“Jeff Jerkface.”

We stare at each other. My soul is crushed while her soul is horrified.

We both break into laughter at the same time.

Even before Jeff, I was bad at dates. Bad at love. I’m a disaster queen. I think the universe is trying to give me a sign that I’m meant to be alone. After Jeff, I became more focused on my career. It’s not that I wasn’t before, but I dug in with the kind of drive that a person only finds after being so empty in the rest of the areas of their life that there’s nothing to do but fill those holes with something else. I loved my job to begin with, so that helped. Pudding has always been there for me through the worst times of my life.

It would be nice to have someone, but I’m not holding my breath over here.

“I’m the queen of bad first dates, that’s what you’re saying?”

Her red face flames up again. “I’m so sorry all your dates were terrible, and then your boyfriends were terrible, and Jeff was terrible. It’s all been terrible. I’m not going to tell you to get back up after getting kicked down. Only you know when the time is right. But this isn’t real. This is just a favor, a purposeful shit show. You’re saving my life, Evilla, and I will be forever grateful.”

Fuck. She’s giving me the extra sad puppy dog eyes. Like rescue puppy dog eyes, and she knows I have a thing for rescue dogs. I have nowhere near the volunteer track record Gen does, but I do believe in dogs. All animals, really, but especially dogs. I can’t help it. They’re my favorite. My apartment says no pets, not even a fish or a bird, so right now, I’m out of luck on the dog front, but it doesn’t mean I can’t love them.

“I’ll also donate ten grand to whichever shelters you want.”

“Gen!”

“Please, Evie! Please! I’m desperate here,” she pleads.

“Admit this is all some master plan. The hives, calling me here because you were in crisis mode, all of it… You probably have a blonde wig and an outfit stashed away in here, just ready for me because we’re both on the same page about the fact that I’m a giant pushover.”

Her face levels out to totally serious, emotionless, and resting dead face Gen, which she does so well. Zombie face, we call it. I suck at it. I can’t ever hide what I’m feeling. Those six months of my life where I was Dead Inside Evilla were the only months I could do the impenetrable, unreadable mask.

“Fine.” There. There it is. It’s rather unsatisfying if I’m honest. “Yes, I gave myself hives. I just didn’t know what else to do. I was so stuck. I’ve never been so stuck, and I would just really, truly, from the bottom of my heart, appreciate it if you would wreck this date for me.”

Ugh. I don’t want to do this, but it’s an hour out of my time at most. No one is going to find out it wasn’t her on that date, and hopefully, this will never happen again for her.

Or for me.

As Gen said, I don’t need any help being horrible at romance. #Destinedtobealoneforever over here.

I let out the world’s longest sigh. I’m so screwed. “Alright, I’ll go, but only because I love you so much. This can never be a thing again.”

She nods so hard and leaps off the mossy boulder couch. Then, she throws herself at me, hugging the life out of me. No matter how bad this date is, I’ll get through it because of this, right here . Bestie hugs. Sisters from different misters hugs. They’re pretty much everything.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s just the tiniest little favor. And I’m a natural disaster. What could go wrong?