LACEY
The call ends, and I force myself into a sports bra and joggers from one of the brands I endorse. I throw on a cap, hoping it screams stay away.
Spoiler: it doesn’t.
By the time I grab a can beer and head toward the gym, I’ve already heard too many “Hi Lacey!” and way too many “Where’s Céline?”
I pretend not to hear any of it.
Then— bam. I round the corner too fast and crash right into someone.
“What the fu— oh. Hi, Lacey.”
Tonia.
She’s holding her nose — right where it slammed into my shoulder — and giving me a strained smile.
She’s wearing less jewellery than usual. Just the nose piercing. And even though she dyed her hair last week, her roots are already peeking through. That’s not like her.
I’m clear-headed enough to pull myself out of my self misery and take a look at
