“YOU HAVE REACHED THE VOICEMAIL BOX OF—”
“DAMN IT, BLAIR!” I yelled at my steering wheel, pounding the ‘End’ button like I was mad at its ancestors. Of course she wasn’t answering. She was probably somewhere tangled in limbs and lust with Matt, falling in love over pad thai and bad decisions.
I parked in the garage, stomped upstairs like a hormonal raccoon.
After a few hours I decided to pour myself a disrespectfully full glass of blackberry wine. Chugged half of it like I was trying to erase the day from my DNA.
Just as I flopped dramatically onto the couch like a drunk Victorian widow, I heard her keys at the door.
Cue the tornado.
Blair burst in like she’d been shot out of a confetti cannon—glowing skin, wild eyes, and the kind of grin that screamed either great s*x or accidental
