Chapter 4
DELLA
THREE WEEKS LATER
The sweet tang of lemon meringue pie lingers on my tongue as I laugh harder than I have in weeks. Freedom tastes better than dessert—like sunshine and possibility had a baby, and I’m eating it with a fork.
“So there I am, trying to finalize the Instagram campaign for the spring collection, when my phone buzzes for the fifteenth time that day,” I say, rolling my eyes so hard I practically see my own brain as sunlight dapples our outdoor table at Café Lucerne like confetti from heaven.
“Another text from Jared, this time with a photo of him doing laundry with the caption ‘missing your washing machine... and you.’ In that order, mind you.”
Betsy snorts, nearly baptizing herself in mimosa. Her engagement ring catches the light as she steadies her glass, sending prism-like reflections dancing across our white tablecloth like tiny disco balls.
“Henry’s making him do his own laundry? I’m shocked he even knows how to operate a washing machine,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Conor would die laughing if he saw Jared’s domestic transformation.”
I watch Liana lean forward, her dark curls brushing the rim of her espresso cup like a bouquet of question marks. “Girl, please tell me you’re not considering taking him back. That man got a free ride for seven years while contributing the domestic skills of a decorative houseplant."
“Absolutely not,” I say, my voice so firm it could win an arm-wrestling competition. “Two weeks of freedom have been revolutionary—I’ve repainted the living room flamingo pink just because I can and reclaimed the middle of the bed like Columbus discovering America, except without the genocide.”
An April breeze pirouettes across the patio, carrying the scent of blooming cherry trees and someone’s slightly burnt waffle.
I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply.
No more Jared’s overpowering cologne that made my apartment smell like the inside of an Abercrombie store had a baby with a taxi air freshener.
Besides,” I continue, stabbing a leftover lemon meringue crumb with my fork like it personally offended me, “Henry’s making Jared pay actual rent and perform household chores like he’s discovered a new species of responsibility.
His last text included a bathroom selfie—not the sexy kind—but him pouting next to a toilet brush as if it were an alien artifact from Planet Adult. ”
Liana deadpans, “Shocking revelation for a thirty-two-year-old man who thought fabric softener was a conspiracy theory,” while expertly balancing her spoon on the rim of her coffee cup like a circus performer.
Betsy swirls her mimosa with such intense concentration you’d think she was decoding DNA, her engagement ring creating tiny champagne tsunamis. "Let’s talk about something more pleasant—like my centerpieces! I was thinking hydrangeas with—”
"Oh!” Liana interrupts, eyes gleaming like a raccoon who’s found an unlocked dumpster. “I almost forgot the juiciest morsel of gossip. Tell Betsy about your brother’s visit to Jared’s new place.”
My eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly achieve orbit. “Felix went to Henry’s apartment? When?”
Liana’s smile turns predatory, like a cat who’s cornered both the canary and its life insurance policy. “Three days ago. After Jared’s one hundred and fortieth call to you—I counted, by the way—Felix decided enough was enough.”
My pulse quickens. “Again? One time was enough.”
Liana grins. “And then Felix told him—quote—‘If you contact my sister again without her explicit invitation, I will personally ensure you regret it in ways your tiny brain cannot begin to comprehend.’ Then he set Jared down so gently it was almost scarier than if he’d dropped him.”
“That explains why the texts stopped two days ago.”
“Your brother is terrifying when he wants to be,” Betsy says with admiration. Then she leans forward, a sly smile curving her lips. “Speaking of Felix… I couldn’t help but notice how you were looking at him at my engagement party.”
Liana chokes on her wine. “What? I wasn’t looking at him in any particular way.”
“Oh, honey,” Betsy drawls, exchanging a knowing glance with Liana, “you most certainly were. Every time Felix walked into the room, you practically got whiplash.”
Liana quickly deflects. “He’s Della’s brother. I’ve known him since I was eighteen.”
“Exactly,” I tap my nails against my coffee cup. “You know exactly how good he looks in a suit. And your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when he lifted Jared off the ground. They appeared laser-focused on my brother’s biceps. I haven’t forgotten how much you fawned over him in college.”
Liana’s cheeks bloom like time-lapse photography of a sunset, from bashful peach to full-blown fire engine.
“I am not discussing this,” she declares, lunging for her water glass with the desperation of someone whose tongue has discovered Carolina Reaper pepper.
“Felix is simply a good friend who happens to possess the genetic lottery ticket of hotness. My eyeballs have functioning rods and cones—they’re just doing their evolutionary job!
I’d stare at any man whose biceps require their own zip code.
Besides, I love being single. My vibrator doesn’t leave wet towels on the bathroom floor. "
“Who said anything about a relationship?” Betsy asks with the faux innocence of a cat sitting beside a shattered vase. “I was just shocked your embarrassing crush hasn’t evaporated like my willpower around carbs.”
I laugh under my breath and give Liana a sympathetic look. “My dear brother is a six-foot-six finance wizard with arms like California redwoods and the jawline of a Disney prince. You’ve been eyeing him like he’s the last chocolate lava cake on earth since our freshman year.”
She buries her face in her hands but can’t stop the smile tugging at her lips like an impatient child. “You two are impossible—like trying to fold fitted sheets.”
"Why didn’t you ever tell him anything?” Betsy asks.
“She did,” I interrupt, dropping the bomb with surgical precision.
Liana’s eyes grow so wide they threaten to escape her face entirely. “How do you possibly know that?” she whispers, her voice a horrified squeak.
“Because I overheard you spilling your guts at my 19th birthday party. You were three hard ciders past reasonable judgment, twirling your hair like a helicopter propeller and practically throwing yourself at him with the subtlety of a confetti cannon.”
She huffs and shakes her head, her curls bouncing with indignation. “Well, thanks for excavating that archaeological disaster.”
“Oh my God, did he turn you down?” Betsy leans forward so eagerly she nearly baptizes herself in wine, positioning herself like a gossip gargoyle.
Liana rolls her eyes and takes a gulp from her fresh martini, leaving a perfect crimson lip print on the glass.
“That magnificent jerk turned me down flatter than a week-old seltzer and said—and I quote—‘You’re practically a fetus.’ I was eighteen and he was twenty-six.
That’s only eight years—not a geological era!
Anyway, I’ve avoided the subject like it’s a public restroom in Times Square, and fortunately, he’s been gentleman enough to play along.
Now, change this subject or I’ll start discussing the virtues of Jared and Devon! ”
Without any further motivation, Betsy and I pipe down.