ASHLEY
I’m coming.
I’m not.
I’m coming.
I’m not.
I’m—goddammit.
I yank the last lily out of the bouquet like it owes me money and stare at the disaster formerly known as my living room. There's a trail of leaves on the floor, petals stuck to my socks, and it's just—freaking 9 A.M.
And guess who just got CC’d on an email titled: Langley Return: Press + Personal Guests.
Like, hi, hello, I’m just over here being emotionally constipated and trying to erase a certain six-foot-three human catastrophe from my frontal lobe, but sure. Let’s just casually drop “Hockey Game at 4PM” onto my calendar—right between “Buy toilet paper” and “Suppress lifelong trauma.”
Perfect. Love that for me.
I should not go.
I’m not going.
I refuse to go.
...Except I don’t really have a choice, do I?
Beca
