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

8. Mont

Chapter eight

Mont

I feel like an old boot. Erm, an old heel. I’m not up to par with my old lingo.

I also feel like a mama’s boy. I never thought that could be me. I moved out when I was eighteen and went to college. Yes, we had family money, but I made my own way with it. I can admit that I got more than my fair share of help from my parents, but I didn’t want to sit on that and let their accomplishments speak for me. I wanted to do something on my own merit.

I guess that this week, I’ve just been thinking a lot about how I got here. I know I mentioned it before, but it hasn’t stopped. I don’t know why I took charge of the rest of my life but not my love life. I still don’t know why I just couldn’t force out that one simple word.

No .

My mom thinks not living life to the fullest is basically like being dead. I love her, but she has life as an hourglass image in her head, where time is constantly running out. It doesn’t matter that I’m still young, or that I’m busy, or that I’m not ready for the level of commitment she wants to force on me.

Looking at it all from this moment, I feel utterly silly. A grown man in this predicament. No wonder Evilla has so much scorn and disbelief when it comes to this. To me. To all of my life.

I plan on making this (not a) date the least about scorn and disbelief as it can be. What I want is what I said. I think if we got to know each other better, we might find that we could sort of be friends or at least be okay with working together.

I know, I know. I forced the situation. I can’t undo that, but I can try and make the best of this going forward if there even is a best to be made. As much as I would like to call the whole thing off, I’ve trapped myself. I’ve trapped Evilla. We might have made a bargain in the end, but I still feel like an ass.

So I try to pick the best-darned crab place in the city.

Correction: The best-darned crab place on a budget in the city.

I get there early, pick a table, and sip an unsweetened iced tea while I wait. I don’t mind people watching, and the small restaurant is packed. It’s a little mom-and-pop shop with all the walls painted bright, vibrant colors. It’s pink on one side, blue on the other, and yellow on the far end. From the fake palm trees to the beachy photos, fishing nets, lighthouses, painted wooden ships, and other décor hanging on the walls, this place is tropically vibing.

Am I too old to say vibing?

I’m thirty.

Does feeling too old count?

The place thoroughly smells like seafood, but I swear that when Evilla walks in, spots me, and walks to the table with a straight face that looks neither pleased nor pissed, I can smell flowers clinging to her hair and skin. She’s dressed for a fun time, wearing a bright pink pin-up style dress with a halter neck, buttons where the straps meet the neckties, and polka dots all over the flared-out skirt. Her black leggings are very toned down, but she picked fun heels. They’re cats, not kitten heels. Real cats. I mean, not literal cats. Christ. They just look like cats. They have fuzzy faces and fuzzy black tails that wrap around her ankles as straps. Her hair glistens copper in the loose braid she teased it into, and around her neck is a lanyard with a picture dangling from the bottom that proudly boasts that she loves to save rats. A cartoon rat is giving two thumbs up.

“Oh!” Her hand closes around it when she notices me staring. “I forgot to take this off.” She sits down on the other side of the booth. Since it’s later in the day, there were a few free ones at the back. I thought Evilla would prefer a booth over sitting at a table near the front. The truth is, I think I prefer it. I’m not a backwatcher, but I also don’t want the whole place to overhear our conversation or watch us as we talk.

If I tell her that I think it’s awesome, she’ll probably toss it into the first trash can. I don’t mean to experiment or play games, but I cast a dubious brow at it. Her hand falls away, and she gives me a stubborn smile. “It’s from the event. I do love to save rats, so I guess I’ll keep it on.”

That’s pretty much what I thought.

“I have something for you.” She reaches into her purse, which is just a plain black messenger-style leather bag looped over her shoulder. Then, she pulls out and places a small object in a little clear baggie on the table.

I reach for it and immediately inspect it. It’s a pin of a pink rat, also giving the thumbs up. “My friend had a few extras. She asked me if I’d like to take one.”

“You got this for me?” It hits me hard. It’s thoughtful, and I didn’t expect it.

She quirks one red-gold brow up at me, and her freckles dance on her nose when it scrunches up near the top. “Yeah. I thought you’d like to donate to the cause. With a twenty-five dollar donation, you get one for free.”

“So you’d like me to make a twenty-five dollar donation for the pin?”

She has to work hard to hide her grin. She’s so beautiful right now when she’s being devious. She’s about to throw all sorts of sass at me, and my dick likes it far more than he should. “For you, it’s twenty-five hundred.”

“Oh. Because I’m special.”

“Yeah.” Her lips wobble, but she holds onto her mostly serious expression. “Twenty-five dollars is for regular people. You’re probably ten times as rich as the average person, so…”

“Ummm…”

“It’s for a good cause, and a few grand would go a long way.” This time, she’s not hiding a smile. She’s serious. I wonder how well the fundraiser went if she’s here asking me for this without appearing to be seriously asking me. “It’s totally tax deductible.” She traces the tabletop with her finger. “Oh, look! The menus are on this code. If we scan it with our phones, we can look at it online.” Then, she pulls out her phone as though the matter’s settled. I’ve never met anyone so direct before.

“Where can I make the donation?” I don’t sigh. I don’t because it would imply I don’t want to do it. I can well imagine how that kind of money would make a difference to the organization on the other end. How it could be huge for them.

My phone vibrates a minute later with an incoming email. I don’t normally check it, but something about her expression tells me she’s the one sending me stuff. She has my work email, and that’s the one she used. There’s a link that redirects me to a website full of rat photos—rats of all colors and sizes. They’re actually not bad, as far as rats go.

“There’s a link on the page. You can fill it out later.” She scans the barcode on the table next. “Crab time. Finally. I’ve been dying for this all night. I was Bingo-ing hard, doing it all for the rats, but my heart was actually here.” At her words, she flushes, realizing how it all sounds. “With the crab legs.”

“Naturally,” I deadpan.

“Naturally. The only choice is, what flavor? Oh goodness, check the menu. They have so freaking many!”

It seems, for once, I’ve done something to please her. I might not be cooking the crab legs or making the place smell like divine fishy deliciousness, but at least I discovered it.

“Ooh, they have crab mac and cheese.”

“Lord,” I groan.

“What?” Her head snaps up. “You don’t think that sounds good?” Her eyes linger on me for a few seconds, but it’s a few seconds long enough to make me feel all sorts of heat.

I don’t think she’s ever seen me dressed in casual clothing before. I’ve gone with jeans, a T-shirt, and a jean jacket. She probably thinks it’s too much denim. I think it’s too much denim, but my wardrobe is basically just dress pants and jeans, and I won’t wear it with dress pants because it looks all wrong, so jeans it is.

“It sounds a little fish-spicious.”

“Oh. Oh, goodness. Did you just make a funny?”

“I’m capable of it, I think,” I say with a low chuckle.

She’s back to trying not to smile. “What about the crab and banana split?”

“There is not one of those!” I gasp, my eyes wide.

She turns her phone, and I see it, though I wish I could unsee and unthink it. “I don’t have any good word combos for that one. Just crabana-NO.”

She giggles, and it’s real. I hear it.

“Crab and meatball soup, then?”

“Sound crabballishess.”

“Really?”

“I have no idea.”

“Okay.” She puts her phone down on its face. “I’m getting the crab legs with garlic butter.”

“I think I’ll make that two.”

She looks around. “I think you fill out the order thing there and bring it to the front.” A whiteboard with a marker sits at the end of the booth.

“It’s a good thing I brought you. I have no idea how this works.”

She snatches the board and pops the cap of the marker off. It’s smashed at the tip, and she laughs as she writes in massive blocky letters across the board. Just as she finishes, the waitress who brought me my iced tea earlier swings back around.

“I can take that for you,” she says, beaming at us. “Would you like a drink?”

“Sure. Yes. I don’t know. Whatever’s good,” Evilla responds. She shoots the waitress a friendly smile in return.

“Do you like coconut water?”

“I’ve never tried it,” Evilla replies.

“It’s my favorite,” the waitress tells her.

“Okay, I’ll get one of those.” A pause. Then, Evilla adds, “I like your apron.”

It’s a black and white checkered apron with a red crab waving its claws all the way across the front. “Thanks! We sell them here, actually.”

“Really? I’ll have to get one on my way out.”

“They’re just at the stand by the counter. One coconut water coming up and two amazing platters of crab legs.” She flicks one platinum blonde braid over her shoulder. “Thanks for supporting local. We appreciate it.”

“I’m going to get an apron, and you should too,” Evilla instructs me after the waitress leaves. “You can give one to your mom. Tell her you got it for her while on a date with me. I’m sure she’ll be moony happy.”

“Moony?” I quirk a brow.

“Over the moon. Or however the saying goes.”

“On that note…” I produce a folded-up piece of paper from my pocket and slide it across the table. Evilla hesitates like it’s laced with bad voodoo but then picks it up and unfolds it.

“You were serious about the paper thing.” She studies me blankly. “I thought that was just you talking swill.”

“Swill?”

“The stuff you don’t drink at the bottom of a glass.”

“I see. I thought it would be easier to have a cheat sheet.”

She crumples it into a ball and tosses it back to me. Not meanly, but playfully. I catch it with one hand, mystified by the easy way this woman acts like no one else. I don’t know why I’m surprised since she stuffs crab legs into her purse. That’s some serious disregard for convention right there.

“I think we can get to know each other better if we listen to each other. Reading off a sheet isn’t going to help the answers stick in my head. I also don’t think knowing your favorite color or favorite food is going to get me very far. When people truly hit it off, it’s because they have the same values and some of the same dreams. If I know you like red and that you have two siblings and grew up here, but I don’t know what you think is important in life or where you see yourself in ten years…it’s just not going to work. Agree? Or disagree?”

The whole sheet was full of the basic bullshit that means nothing. She’s right. I like the way she asks. “Agree.” This might be harder than she’s making it out to be. “We’d have to pretend to have common goals and values.” Shit . Her appalled expression more than says that my words came out all wrong. “I don’t mean…I don’t mean that what I want is better or more advanced. We’re just two different people.”

“Opposites are supposed to attract. Just because we like different things doesn’t mean we couldn’t potentially find the same things important. Hypothetically, obviously.”

“What if I don’t know what I want to do in ten years? Or what if I do? What if it’s just running my companies and maybe adding another and another?”

“So you just want to keep making more money? Or do you want to be married to your job? And if that’s a yes, then is it because you want to use it as a crutch to replace the things in your life you don’t have or because you truly love it? And if you truly love it, then wouldn’t you want to buy companies that make a difference in the world?”

“As a legacy project?”

“That’s such an ugly way to put it. Although, maybe legacy means leaving something that matters for the next generation.”

“I don’t know the answers to any of that,” I tell her truthfully.

“Do you want to travel?”

“For work?”

She sighs. “For work or any other reason.”

“I guess so.”

“Okay.” She fiddles with her phone and puts it back into her purse. Then, she makes good eye contact, and it sucks me in…straight down into the vortex of her lovely green stare. “Maybe I’ll go first. I’d like to travel. To Ireland and Scotland, and definitely just for the pleasure of it. Not for work. I’m not sure if I want to have kids. Maybe one day. Also, I love animals, pretty much all kinds. I act tough on the outside, but inside, I’m pretty much a big softie for just about any cause. I wish the world were a better place. I truly do. It really hurts to think about the amount of suffering in it. And a lot of the time, I feel truly helpless.

“I love antiques and thrifting. I did it when I was younger because I liked cool things and didn’t have the cash for new stuff. Even now, I don’t have a lot of extra money, but even if I did, I would still want the one-of-a-kind old stuff. I’m a great lover of history, no matter how it’s told. Antiques, fiction, non-fiction, I’m here for it. I like cooking, but I’m terrible at it. I love baking, too, but I’m even worse at that. The same goes for sewing. I adore fashion of all kinds, especially dresses, and I’ve tried making my own creations a few times, but it’s always a wretched disaster. I live alone by choice. I love my friends, but I like my alone time, too. I believe in doing something you love. Something that has meaning. I know that’s a pipe dream for a lot of people, and I know how lucky I am.”

She trails off with that, and I don’t know what makes me feel worse. The fact that she almost quit her job because of me or the fact that we’re still doing this charade, also because of me.

“Other than that, there’s really not much else you need to know. I had a great childhood. I have one older sister, and she’s older by two years. I have aunts, uncles, and cousins. I also have one living grandma, and I miss the other three like freaking crazy. I went to college here. I love living here. I’d leave, but I’d probably always find my way back. It’s good to know where you’re from, even if your path takes you in other directions. We had pets growing up, mostly a family dog and a cat. We do things like family reunions, and we grow a garden every summer. My mom is good at baking and canning and pretty much everything I’m not. I love to read, and I inherited that love from both my parents. My dad works in an office, and my mom went back to work as a receptionist in a doctor’s office after I turned ten. Neither of my parents went to college, but they did do on-the-job training, and they still do that sometimes if their employers send them. My sister is a dietician, and she’s freaking amazing. Their names are Phillip and Joy, and my sister’s is Atella. Yes, she also got an inventive name.

“None of us can draw or sing, but we all wish we could. We’re pretty unathletic as a whole. And I’d say that if we were pressed, which I know we likely will be, we should say we met and bonded over crabanana splits. You were here having one, and I was here having one, and we noticed at the same time that we both liked them, and we’d never seen another person order one. Ever. It was one of those right moment, right time events—kismet shit. I told you about what I did for a living, and I made pudding sound so good that you couldn’t resist giving it a go. If you’re not already past that point.”

“I haven’t specifically told my parents anything about you personally or why I bought the pudding company. They know your name, they know I’m supposedly crazy about you, and they know you work at the company I just bought. But I’ve been purposely vague about the how and why and the super fine details.”

I don’t know if she’s settled into this as her fate or if she’s decided that I’m not such a villain, but she nods, satisfied.

“You sounded scornful when it comes to legacy.” I have to ask because it’s going to be like a thorn that constantly bothers me otherwise. “There are some people that say enduring is the most important thing there is.”

“I guess most people think that way. Is that why you do what you do? Because you want your name to live on?”

“I do what I do because I was born into it, sort of, but I never wanted anyone to say I didn’t work for what I have.”

“But you just said you were born into it.”

I can’t explain the aversion I have to being labeled a silver spoon child or a trust fund baby, or whatever people call it now. Nepo baby. I guess that’s the new term. “I was, but I wanted to earn my way as well. I wanted to expand on what was already there.”

She looks like she wants to yawn, but her gaze slowly comes back around to me after doing a slow perusal of the place. It’s getting busier after the dinner rush, not the other way around. “Running an empire is probably hard work.”

“I guess so.”

“It doesn’t leave a lot of time for anything else,” she adds.

“Not really.”

“Or do you think it could if you wanted it to? Isn’t the point of life supposed to be working smarter? Or don’t work if you don’t have to? Find something you love and do it?”

“I love what I do.” I sound defensive, and I know it.

“Okay.” She wants to change the subject. But unlike me, she’s good at it. It gives me a glimpse of what she would be like if she was taken out on an actual date and she was actually trying. She wouldn’t try to botch it like the first one we went on. “What else?”

I made a perfectly good list of facts about me, which she dismissed without so much as a glance. Now, I’m lost, and I don’t have anything else. I’m terrified that in two seconds, it’s going to become apparent there is nothing about us that could have ever connected. I’m afraid she’s going to think I’m only surface-level deep, that my whole life is work and money, driving to the top, and climbing rungs. There’s always a top on top of a top. I don’t think anyone is ever satisfied with having everything. My family doesn’t live like that. We might have lots of money, but it’s poured into investments, businesses, savings, property, and donations.

“My parents are kind of minimalists. You wouldn’t know they had money if you didn’t know,” I say.

“So they live like doctor or lawyer-level rich?”

I think about their house in a neighborhood where most people are actually doctors and lawyers. “Their house blends in with everyone else’s. Their vehicles, too.”

“So, not overly showy. Got it. And you? You like to live the same way, or you have some high-level penthouse that overlooks the city?”

I do own one, but it happens to be in the building I also own, and I don’t live there, so I don’t think it counts. “I have a decent place,” I say vaguely.

“That’s probably code for something super awesome, but you’re trying to downplay it because you think I’m not going to like hearing the truth?”

“I…no. It’s a warehouse condo.” I own that building, too. I have to live somewhere, so I thought the top floor was a good choice. I probably should have made it into two condos instead of one giant beast, but I couldn’t choose, and then the architect I hired seemed convinced that breaking it up would have been a crime.

“That’s pretty cool.” She perks up. Does she like architecture? Who doesn’t like warehouse condos, though? “Is it old and full of brick and wooden beams?”

“Yes, and the windows are to die for. They’re those curl up in the seat and overlook the whole city kind.”

“Ooh. I’m getting the best mental picture.”

Her smile. Lord. It’s breathtaking. The way she tilts her head and the way the lights in this place hit her hair is equally a punch to the lungs of amazingness. The red-gold blend is in perfect ratio. There’s probably a word for it, but without looking up a color palette or wheel at the moment, I can’t think of anything. Sand is all wrong, and copper doesn’t even half get there.

“It’s very nice. I like it a lot,” I say.

“Good. I’m glad you chose something because you loved it and not because you think people of your income bracket should live in a certain type of place. I like the fact that your clothes are nice too, but they’re not all designer. Or have you been dressing down because it’s pudding and not investment banking?”

I like this—this easy banter. I consider it easy even though most people don’t like it when other people speak their minds. I’m not sure what it is about society that values falsity, but it’s always made me feel uncomfortable. Even so, I realize how much I’ve fallen into that trap. Doesn’t everyone? Are honesty and vulnerability the same thing?

“I don’t care about designer names. I just like clothes to fit right and be of good quality. Enduring .” I use the word on purpose, and her smile widens again. It sends a shiver racing up my spine that somehow ends up in my dick. Not sure about the anatomy there, but it happens.

“What’s your set of things I should know?”

We’re back to this. I was hoping I’d given her enough. Without the sheet, I’m drawing a blank. She seemed to tell me about herself so easily and confidently. “I’m an only child. I was a particularly difficult baby. My mom probably didn’t sleep for three years straight. She was too exhausted to think about having another baby, and then when I finally started to calm down and become a regular child instead of a monstrous beast baby, she thought about doing it all again and just really didn’t want to go down that road.”

“But they were rich. Couldn’t she have hired a nanny?”

“She didn’t want to have to do that. My parents have always had a cleaner who comes twice a week and someone who does the yardwork because they have a huge yard, and neither of them likes the upkeep, but when it came to me, I was all hers.”

“That’s a good thing to know. But wasn’t she worried like crazy about you? That there might have been something wrong?”

“Definitely. They took me to tons of doctors, but everyone said I was fine. I was just fussy, and I liked to cry. I don’t remember any of it, but when my mom tells me about some of the particularly bad nights, it makes me want to apologize on behalf of my baby self. Not that she ever speaks about it with anything but love.”

“I get that. Babies are hard. I don’t know anyone who has had a particularly easy experience. I think parenthood is mostly a lot of fluff and myth. At least, that’s what people want you to think it is. Of course, it’s love, but it’s also a lot of desperation, hard work, feeling horrible, doubting yourself, and tons of sacrifice. I don’t think I’m ready for that anytime soon. You?”

I don’t know why, but the words stick in my throat. Maybe this is what I can’t do. I can make money in a thousand clever ways, and I can go into a room full of hostile individuals and calm them down. When it comes to business, I can face the toughest challenge with the utmost patience, but talking about myself? Really getting into detail? Even with myself? I just can’t do it.

Maybe this is why I couldn’t tell my mom no when it came down to it.

The vulnerability thing again.

No, honesty and vulnerability aren’t the same.

“I don’t know,” I mutter.

“That’s fair.”

“I have an average-sized extended family,” I tell her.

“Who made all the money?”

“My great grandpa. He and my great-grandma were farmers, and they did the old classic and had land that contained oil. It wasn’t a big old pile of money they got to sit on, but after having almost nothing their whole lives, they were smart with their investments. They didn’t stick it in a bank. They bought a property, probably as something to leave their children. That property ended up making money when it sold, and their other investments did well, too.”

“Ahh, so the classic money makes money.”

“Yes, it was quite unoriginal.”

“I don’t know…” The way her eyes flash draws me in again. It makes me want to lean forward across the table and brush my fingers over the dimples that appear. But I make sure my ass is firmly planted on the bench seat. “I’ve never met anyone who knew anyone who got rich from oil. That’s actually pretty cool. Like finding gold. People did it, but I don’t know anyone who knows anyone who did.”

Talking about myself isn’t as painful as it usually is. Why is it only now that I realize I’ve pretty much done everything my whole life to avoid it, ever since I was a kid? It’s easy to divert attention. I’ve been a master at it. I like making people laugh. I don’t like talking about serious stuff, and I don’t want to be one of those people who takes myself too seriously, either. I think it’s all around safer to keep my opinions about things to myself most of the time. I’ve worked hard to be able to make good decisions, and part of that is training myself to be impartial and emotionless.

“Ahhhh, yes! Here they are!” Evilla claps her hands together. I see our server bringing two huge platters of crab legs over. I remember how Evilla reacted the first time she got crab legs, and I wonder how much of that was genuine.

It’s awesome that she doesn’t care how excited she gets for something so simple or who might be watching her. She lights up for those crab legs, and even though the place is well-lit, colorful, and full of people who are wearing tons of different, vibrant clothing, she seems to shine the brightest and be the most colorful. My attention is completely drawn to her. Her smile only gets wider as the crab legs are placed in front of us. She puts her face practically in them and inhales the garlic buttery goodness.

“Shoot. I forgot your drink. Oh my gosh!” Our poor server looks harried as she apologizes.

“That’s okay. Take your time. I can just drink garlic butter until then.” She makes the young woman laugh effortlessly. As soon as she leaves, Evilla grabs a crab leg and says, “I was only half kidding. I’m so thirsty that I could drink an entire pitcher.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I practically finished my drink, but I could have flagged someone down for her or gone to the front to ask.

“It’s not a big deal. I’m not dying here or anything. It’s busy, and they’re probably short-staffed. But these look divine.” She’s not complaining. She’s looking for the brighter, finer points.

And the finer points come in huge crab leg form. She breaks one open with her bare hands and, like the first night, takes a huge bite of the meat. Her eyes get heavy as she chews, and she has that look of pure bliss that can only be derived from mouthwateringly epic goodness.

I crack a crab leg open myself, dip it in the butter, and yes. Yes, she’s absolutely right. Wow . This gets five stars. It gets all the stars.

“I’m not sure about the crab banana split thing, but we could have bonded over crab legs. When they’re this good, people might believe it.”

“It’s probably best to keep things as true as possible,” she says in agreement.

“That’s what people say about the best lies. They have the most truth in them.”

Lying. That’s what this really is. It’s not a charade, and it’s not a game. I’m lying to my parents. I’m faking all this. I set the crab leg that I’m holding back onto the plate. My stomach is suddenly not very hungry at all, and Evilla notices.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, looking concerned.

“I should just tell them. Everything,” I say.

She gives me a hard look. “I think you should, but at the same time, you also have to weigh how much harm that would do. What is worse now that you’ve already ventured down this path?”

“I should tell them. There’s more harm in lying. There always is. My mom might be mad at me, mad and hurt, and it will make me feel terrible, but who knows what she might do or feel when I say we’ve broken up? It will be me destroying all the hope I allowed to grow for two months. I should never have started this. Yeah, that’s what I want to do. I release you from having to be my fake girlfriend. And everything else stays the same with the company.”

She’s stunned, but unlike me, she’s good at recovering. She doesn’t say anything about how irrational I’ve been or how impulsive I am. She also doesn’t mention the company I bought because, for the first time in my life, I made an emotional decision.

“Okay. Uh, do you want help with that?”

“No. No, definitely not. I’ll be fine,” I mutter with a wave of my hand.

“I can come with you for emotional support if you want,” she offers.

“I’m a grown man. I can handle it,” I assure her.

Evilla is a good person. If that was in doubt after our first date, it’s not anymore. Everything she’s done since then has proven that she’s selfless, graceful, smart, and kind. She doesn’t even give me a weird look or mention anything about me not having previously been able to handle it, hence why we’re even here. She doesn’t wish me luck, and she doesn’t look at me like she doesn’t believe I can do it.

Instead, she grabs a crab leg and raises it in the air. “I give this place two great big crab legs up. And when I described my family, I wasn’t completely honest. I mean, I was, and that’s the problem. We’re so bland, so unremarkable. It would be nice to just be a little bit different. Maybe that’s why my mom gave us such wild names. She was trying to insert the smallest amount of excitement into our lives. I wished for so long that I could be amazing or have something super cool happen to me. Gen’s parents became rich pretty much overnight. We stayed best friends even after she moved across the city and started going to a different school. They were still cool, and my life still overlapped with hers. They didn’t forget me, which was so kind of them. They made it possible for Gen to stay Gen and for us to stay best friends. When I was little, I used to think something was just around the corner for my family, too. Then, when I got older, I hoped it would be coming for me. Not getting rich or anything. Just getting…something.” She huffs. “Well, something happened, alright. Something super shitty that I never saw coming.”

However, she doesn’t elaborate. Should I ask? She’s giving all the vibes of don’t ask, or you’ll be sorry. Also? I don’t want to talk about it, and I’m sorry I wedged that door open. Let’s shut it. Let’s shut it up tightly.

“Anyway, if only my younger self could see my present-day self now. Faking being someone’s girlfriend and then maybe not faking it. Who would have ever thought?”

She’s back to smiling, and I’m back to being drawn into the infectiousness of it. Even with this thundercloud looming over my head, I can appreciate being here right now. In the past, I’ve had trouble being present in the moment. I’m always busy planning for the future, anticipating my next move, and seeking good investments.

But right now? I’m right here with Evilla and the crab legs.