Ever since that day I walked in on Penny under Frank, I struggle to find the comfort in anything. Drowning my thoughts in work, booze, or exercise is as good as it gets.
Besides Leighton.
But that—
I'm not thinking about that.
I send her the photo.
Leighton: Barely sweating.
Ryan: I went nine miles.
Leighton: How can I get some of this infinite endurance?
Ryan: Join me next time.
Leighton: You're too fast.
Ryan: I'll slow down. Call it a rest day.
Leighton: Asshole.
Ryan: You just figuring that out?
Leighton: It's a constant revelation.
I can't help but smile. There's something about the way she teases me. It warms me the way the sun used to.
I slip my cell into my pocket, fill my bottle at the nearest fountain, run the half a mile back to Venice, then the twenty blocks to my apartment.
A hot shower washes away the day, but it's not enough.
The invitation is still sitting on my desk.
Without my contacts, it's a blur of white and silver. An anonymous reason for celebration.
When I slide my glasses on, the words come into focus.
You are cordially invited to the wedding of Penelope Winters and Francis Hobbs.
It's still happening.
There's still no way I can stomach it alone.
And it's still a terrible idea finding a fake girlfriend.
I am gonna figure this out. Somehow.
I push it aside as I pull up Leighton's design on my laptop.
It's perfect.
I grab my cell and shoot her a text.
Ryan: Fucking amazing.
Leighton: There's nothing you'd change?
Ryan: Nothing.
My chest warms. It feels good, helping Leighton. Everything feels good with Leighton.
There's no way I'm risking that.
I let the thought bounce around my brain as I prep dinner—a simple, sautéed lemon chicken.
Usually cooking calms me. But, today, it isn't working.
Memories of Penny threaten to flood my mind. Her standing in the kitchen, in her ironic pink and white apron, joking about how she's a perfect homemaker.
That smile as she perfected penne arrabiata.
The intense look in her honey eyes as she watched me take my first bite.
She's been in the corner of my mind for the last year and change. She's been a ghost in my thoughts. A watermark on a perfect photo.
There.
But easy to ignore.
Now, with that fucking invitation sitting on my desk—
A million memories of her crash together.
I'm sorry, but I don't love you anymore. It echoes around the silent room.
I plug my cell into the knockoff iHome. Boot up one of Leighton's most miserable playlists.
Penny drifts from my thoughts as heavy guitar fills the room.
I only see Leighton's plum smile. Her blue-green eyes crinkling as she laughs. Her hand on her hip as she defends the song from Brendon's "I'm not listening to that emo shit" complaints.
I finish cooking. Place the chicken on a salad. Drizzle it with oil and vinegar.
It's not gourmet, but it's my hard work.
That makes it perfect.
My phone buzzes as I bring my plate to the dining table.
Leighton: I hear Hawaii is beautiful in August.
Ryan: Don't.
Leighton: At least think about it.
Ryan: I am.
Penny's wedding owns my thoughts.
I'd kill to erase it from my mind.
But Leighton—
What the hell does she get out of this?
Ryan: This is all for Hawaii?
Leighton: You don't know how badly I want to zip line.
Ryan: When did zip lining become part of it?
Leighton: You think I'm gonna go all the way to Maui and not do everything I ever wanted to do there?
Ryan: Don't make me say no again.
Leighton: Okay. Fine. But I want to state, for the record, that you won't find anyone better.
Ryan: Agreed.
Leighton: And that it won't make things weird.
Ryan: You agreed to drop it.
Leighton: Okay. Dropping it. I should go soon. I have class at eight.
Ryan: You get up early enough to get somewhere at eight?
Leighton: Go to hell.
Ryan: Already there.
Leighton: Well that takes the sting out of hurting you.
Is she pissed or teasing?
I don't know. I never do with her. With the guys, it's easy. They annoy me all the time, but it's 'cause they wear their irritation on their sleeve.
Ryan: Why are you taking that class?
Leighton: You gave me shit all spring about how I should go back to college and now you're asking me why I'm taking this class?
Ryan: You're better than this 201 shit.
Leighton: Maybe. But it's a requirement if I want to do a design program at any UC or Cal State.
Ryan: You could skip that. Charge for your shit. It's good.
Leighton: Not that good.
Ryan: It is. Trust me. I know what I'd pay for your designs.
Leighton: Doing Facebook graphics isn't a career.
Ryan: It is. But you do a lot more. Logos. Websites. Book covers. You could do any of it.
Leighton: Well…
Ryan: Well?
Leighton: Can you keep a secret?
Ryan: Who am I going to tell?
Leighton: True. Nobody else listens to you.
Ryan: Bane of my existence.
Leighton: I know.
I can't help but laugh.
Leighton: I designed a cover for Kaylee's book.
Ryan: It has a title?
Leighton: Something like "Forbidden." I have one with that title. But my best mock-up is titled "I Love Fucking Brendon."
Ryan: With a picture of him naked?
Leighton: If only I had one *sigh*
Ryan: You're hot for him?
Leighton: Ew.
Ryan: You don't find him attractive?
Leighton: He's good-looking, yes. But I'm not interested.
Ryan: Why?
Leighton: He's been in love with Kay the whole time I've known him.
Ryan: If he wasn't?
Leighton: Hard to imagine. And I'm done with this subject. You want to see the cover or not?
Ryan: Yeah.
My phone flashes with a new picture message. A mock-up for Kaylee's book.
The eighteen-year-old college student/aspiring author is Brendon's girlfriend. He's one of the co-owners, and the oldest guy at the shop after me.
It should be fucked-up—their eight year age difference, him being her best friend's older brother—but it's not.
They love each other.
Everything else is irrelevant.
My cell buzzes as two more mock-ups join the first.
One is a silly throw back—a buff, shirtless guy clutching a woman in a fancy dress.
The next image is simple. Forbidden carved into a black background, revealing the lush red rose beneath it. Kaylee Hart at the bottom in a simple sans font.
It's beautiful. Something my mom would buy.
The third isn't nearly as classy.
It's a shirtless guy, from the waist up.
It's—
Ryan: What am I doing on your book cover?
Leighton: Saving me the stock photo credit.
Ryan: What the fuck, Leigh?
Leighton: You have a certain something.
Ryan: Tattoos?
Leighton: Yeah. And something else.
Ryan: Abs?
Leighton: You're proving my point.
Ryan: This is weird.