26
Cara throws my favorite little black halter dress at me.
“Ow,” I state dryly although I know this is a silly reaction since it didn’t hurt at all. I’m lying on my bed in my yoga pants and a T-shirt amid a mess of gossip magazines and granola bar wrappers.
“Enough moping,” Cara says as she starts our favorite pre-party song mix on my iPod. Flo Rida’s “Club Can’t Handle Me” plays from my speakers. “Get off of your bed. Take a shower. Get cute. We are going out.”
Flicking my dress to the side, I continue to lie facedown on my bed with my head resting on my hands. “I’m not moping. I just don’t feel like going out.”
Cara lets out an exaggerated laugh. “Not moping my a*s, Livi. You’ve been home for a week, and you have barely left the house. Despite my begging, you have refused to go out
