The Friendship Contract
Chapter One
A Tuesday date night should not wind me up. It’s not like Kyle and I are a brand-new couple still so hot for each other we barely make it through appetizers before we claw off each other’s clothes in a questionable-looking bathroom stall. Though, with his new ViddyChat marketing campaign, our schedules have been off. We’re lucky if we see each other in passing let alone make time for romance (don’t even get me started on sex). But somehow, the fancy French restaurant invitation with its thick, expensive navy cardstock and wispy gold lettering… Tonight feels like an occasion.
You don’t ask your live-in girlfriend of almost two years to a place like Mots Doux—on a weeknight—for a casual dinner.
My brain autofills: Kyle Andrews and Allegra Malone cordially invite you to…
“Stop it, Allegra,” I chastise myself as I stare at the sad-looking heels section of my closet shoe rack.
I left the office half an hour early, weaved through traffic, and stabbed the elevator button for Kyle’s high-rise condominium like I was being chased, all to raid my closet for the perfect outfit that somehow yells, “Pop the question so we can feast on ridiculously overpriced fine dining and have celebratory sex!”
In spite of what my best friends and law firm partners, Damon and Lea think, and the faulty instincts I inherited from Mom to me it matters what I wear to take my first steps into our betrothed future.
So, it’s the red suede heel versus the black patent leather slingbacks.
“Ugh,” I groan. They’re the sexiest pairs I own, though neither are giving me “marriage material” vibes.
With a sweep of my fingers through my razor-cut hair, I suck up my pride and whip out my laptop to send a ViddyChat invite. After a few minutes, Damon and Lea pop into their tiny squares on the screen. They’re still in the office. Their twitching lips and rapid blinking tell me they’re ready to be entertained.
With a skyward flick of my eyes, I heave a sigh.
“I’m only calling you to help me figure out what to wear.”
“Good because we only answered to talk some sense into you,” Lea quips as she bats her fringe of mink eyelashes.
Let’s just say, a marriage with Kyle isn’t something Lea’s dying to see on my menu, even if it is at a fancy French restaurant. She’s an endgame person who reads self-help books and listens to “Best Practices of Successful People” podcasts on her daily drive. She’s all about tough love. She focuses only on the things we can control…even if they’re the hardest.
On the “loyalty principle,” she loathes Kyle, and thinks I can do better than a materialistic man who works late (because he’s building a telecommunications empire), breaks dates (Rome was not built between nine to five), and detests “backyard barbecues.” Which, that last one concerns me but I’m not in love with his family functions either. Well, function. I’ve only been to the one. Though, I’ll take loud music, dominoes and Spades, and dancing in the delicious-smelling smoky air over his parents quiet—I’m talking pin-drop quiet—dinner with his mom politely smiling at me between bites.
Yeah, sue me. Hello? It’s called compromise.
So what if I’ve only met his parents once in two years, how is that a red flag?
A placating smile stretches Lea’s full, wine-stained lips. I sense she’s ready to call me on my shit. But I’m not wrong about tonight.
I slip on one heel from each pair and twist, giving the camera my best angles.
“Red or black?” I ask, ignoring Lea’s unsolicited commentary, for which I neither have the time nor the patience. It’s 5:40. Kyle will be back and ready to leave by 6:20 for our seven o’clock reservation. I still haven’t picked an outfit or even thought about which of my gazillion lipsticks to wear.
I clear my throat and arch an eyebrow expectantly at the screen.
“Any thoughts, D?” Not that Damon ever comments on my outfits. I’m only asking to take some of the steam out of the argument I sense brewing inside Lea.
In true diva form, Lea tosses me a blank stare. Then she tucks a blown-out, ebony strand of hair behind her diamond-studded ear before she deems to lower her chin to survey my heels.
Now, this is my fault. For a nanosecond, I think she’s going to bite her tongue and help her best friend.
But she promptly reminds me she is Lea Cook “Always be Closing,” attorney at law. Her truth will be heard.
This is the triple-edged sword of our friendship. Whether it’s brutal honesty or simply being present while one of us licks our wounds, The Trio always comes first. It’s the unwritten, binding consideration always at stake. Just like Lea and I pretend Damon’s old hip-hop dance crew moves are still funky fresh. Unless she’s way off base with a case, Damon and I let Lea take the lead. For our own sanity. And when necessary, they’re always ready to tell me when I’m confusing “fun for now” with forever.
In law school, we forged an unbreakable bond then promptly applied the contracts, compliance, and legal issues terminology we learned to ourselves. Our friendship was binding— enforceable via tough love, on an as needed basis—and irrevocable.
It stuck.
Now, we’re Allegra Malone, Damon Dawson, and Lea Cook, esteemed partners at Malone, Dawson, & Cook, LLP, an intellectual property and technology law firm. The business was both conceived and masterminded in the library stacks during our days at William S. Boyd School of Law, where we first became The Trio. We’re a badass legal team, weeding out the copy-pasters of the world who consider it business as usual to profit off stolen ideas. Patent, trademark, copyright, trade secret infringements, we do it all. Which means our needle-sharp minds pierce straight through bullshit to determine what’s real.
And Lea’s about to use hers to talk some tough love.
“Al, you and Kyle are about to fly to Hawaii on Thursday for your brother’s wedding. Aaron doesn’t need his mopey big sister looking butthurt during the ceremony because you thought Kyle was going to propose. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but he won’t.”
Lea closes her eyes like continuously stressing her opinion that my spastic nerves are “merely the foolishness of a hopeless romantic,” is exhausting for her.
Because, of course, she will.
I love hearing how my relationship instincts are shit.
This is the “as needed” part I mentioned. Have I had a string of bad relationships? Yes. Am I in love with love? Yes, but name a woman who grew up watching Disney movies who doesn’t want her happily ever after.
“This is not a me thing, Le,” I say defensively when Damon snickers. This undoubtedly means he agrees with Lea, but he’s attempting to appear neutral. I’m about to tell him to pick a side when I realize, to them, my reasoning is circumstantial. Unless I can help them see things from my perspective…
Shit. Where did Kyle put the invitation?
“What’s different about tonight?” Lea, prepared to die on this hill, doesn’t miss a beat. I let her continue with her rant as I walk over to Kyle’s nightstand. Seeing nothing on top, I pull out the drawer, searching for a glimpse of the blue cardstock. Underneath a stack of papers, I find the remote control that’s been “lost” for the past two days, EarPods, lube, and…extra-large condoms “for big guys”?
I spit out a laugh because…yeah, no. I know first-hand what the man isn’t working with in the family jewels department.
Kyle is tall, lanky, thin, and blond with a clean-shaven, store-bought-tan baby face. He wears slim-cut suits I can’t even get my thigh into, and size nine shoes, so…just…no.
“What?” Damon asks, a smile quirking his full lips.
Now, Damon could probably fill… Wait, what? Uh, no. He’s family, Allegra.
Lea and I have been down this route about my ancient college crush on Damon. You don’t risk throwing your best friend into your messy dating life, no matter how attracted you are to him.
“This is…” I shake my head, shoving the crazy, awkward thought aside. “Nothing, I was looking for the invitation…nothing.” I laugh it off.
Pushing the drawer closed, I remember Kyle bringing up his gym bag, along with a few more donation boxes, from his trunk yesterday. Some people do spring cleaning, Kyle does summer purging.
“That’s what you’re looking for? I don’t need to see the invitation.” Lea laughs. “He’s just taking you out to grab a quick bite to eat. You’re acting like this is the Met Gala and he’s got Tiffany’s on standby.”
I dip out as she’s talking to check the living room, then kitchen. As I turn back to the bedroom to check the closet that’s when I overhear Lea drilling in on her “quick bite” angle.
“At Mots Doux?” I shoot her a pointed stare. “First, it’s a new French restaurant in Southern Highlands. Second, it’s formal wear, invitation-only, and upward of 1,000 dollars a plate—”
Damon blows out his cheeks. He releases an impressed whistle. “Fuck. A 1,000-dollar bite, Al?”
“Relax, I’m sure he got the invitation as a kickback from a client,” Lea says, undeterred. “Even if he didn’t, the man invented ViddyChat, for Christ’s sake. Look at his condo.” She holds out her palm, glossing over the fact I call this place home, too. “A couple grand isn’t a big deal for him. Trust me, this is just dinner.”
Her certainty—based on my dating history, there’s a fifty-fifty chance she’s probably right—grates on my nerves as I duck into the closet.
It’s the principle.
Is it so farfetched that a man would want to propose to me?
“Al, I know I’m being hard on you, but it’s because I love you,” Lea says. “If you can give me three reasons why you’re in love with him, I’ll rest my case.”
I open my mouth to argue that Kyle is…well, he’s…and I…but we…
“All I’m saying is, don’t settle unless you love him.” Lea’s voice is soft and sympathetic. “I’m begging you, as your friend who loves you and the legal counsel representing your heart. Marriage shouldn’t be worth settling for. Don’t make tonight about anything other than a meal with your bougie boyfriend.”
Damon smiles.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a laugh because she’s not wrong. Not that I’ll let her know as much.
If there’s one thing Kyle loves, it’s flaunting his money. Everything is always, “Drinks all around!” and slipping the black card to the server before anyone else gets out their wallets with him.
“Whatever, Le,” I say, spotting Kyle’s duffel peeking out from underneath a pile of discarded clothes on the floor in the back of the closet--next to his laundry basket and still-unpacked suitcase. I tug the bag free and plop down on the floor.
“Al, you lead with your heart when…maybe you should shield it,” Damon says, jolting me from my stupor. But I stop to listen, anyway. A person as quiet as Damon Dawson makes you listen when he finally talks. I know it’s going to be something worth hearing.
“What are you saying, D?” I swallow. “You think I shouldn’t be with Kyle?”
My heart revs with anticipation, jackhammering against my chest. It’s one thing, having Lea make a case in her no-nonsense, face-the-facts manner. But this is Damon, who stays out of anything dating related—my rumpled, sweet best friend who guards my drinks in clubs, the guy who keeps an extra bottle of Louisiana hot sauce in his fridge in case I stop by, a man who schedules his entire calendar around our Trio Wednesday dinners.
“He’s cool enough, I guess.” Damon shrugs. There’s no conviction in his tone until he asks, “Is Kyle who you really want to be with? I know you’ve been together for a while. I can’t speak for Le, but I’m going to be real with you. I didn’t see this being a ‘forever’ thing.” He presses his enormous fist to his lips, the muscles at his jaw taut with concern.
“Yeah,” I say.
It’s so strange. Thirty minutes ago, I’d been 1,000 percent sure about my future with Kyle. I know we’ve had issues I chose to ignore, but why does Damon’s opinion of him bother me so much? Why am I now looking at Kyle—at any future we’d have together—with fresh eyes? Have I been leading with my heart?
I’m a thirty-six-year-old hopeless romantic. Of course, I want love and marriage. Not so much the white picket fence or the kids just yet, but I want my “happily ever after” all the same. I want to travel. I want to explore with my other half. I want to dance like we’re drunk. I want us to laugh at corny “Am I the Asshole” tweets. Ninety percent of the time, if you need to ask, the answer is yes. I want to watch old movies together and experience them anew because I’m watching them with him. Otherwise, what have I been doing? Why even date?
Lea’s expression softens. “We don’t want to see you hurt again, Al.”
“I know.”
I turn back to Kyle’s duffel. The air feels charged when I tug open the zipper. My breath hitches. My heart slows to a thud. I physically cannot close my mouth. The expensive-looking navy cardstock isn’t there, but inside his tennis shoe is a small teal box—the perfect size to fit an engagement ring.
Maybe it hasn’t all been lip service and empty promises. Maybe my instincts are just fine.
Anxiety swirls in my gut.
Before I officially freak the heck out, I pry open the lid, needing to confirm it’s not another pair of stud earrings.
A sparkly two-carat solitaire on a white gold band blinds me. The diamond is bigger than I would’ve ever needed. The setting is simple and delicate, yet majestic somehow. It makes me excited in a way I’d hoped I’d feel whenever--if ever—I were to get engaged, no matter how farfetched it seemed.
“Al?” Damon calls my name.
It might be the reality of holding a gorgeous engagement ring in my hand and knowing it’s for me, but butterflies soar in my stomach. My heart cartwheels in my chest like it’s a summer day in a field of swaying heather.
I slowly slide the ring onto my finger. A seed of hope burrows into my mind and heart, taking root.
“So, if Kyle were to propose, you think I should say no?” I ask before lifting my gaze. My voice is as stilted, as unsure as I feel.
Damon scrubs a hand over his face, the muscles at his jaw tightening. “Only you can decide, Al. Do you really think he’s going to ask?”
I suck in a lungful of air, hold out my left hand to the camera, and listen as my two best friends gasp in disbelief.
“Oh my goodness,” Lea breathes the words.
But Damon says nothing. And this is the moment I need him to voice his opinion most and be real with me, not tell me he doesn’t think what Kyle and I share isn’t a “forever thing.” I need him to explain in vivid detail why. Or why not.
What does he know or see that I don’t? If Kyle isn’t for me, then who is? And what the heck is taking him so long?
Lea cuts straight to the chase. “What are you going to do?”
I’m still, my nerves on edge, waiting for my brain to autofill a response. But the only thing that comes to me is, “I don’t know.”
You don’t ask your live-in girlfriend of almost two years to a place like Mots Doux—on a weeknight—for a casual dinner.
My brain autofills: Kyle Andrews and Allegra Malone cordially invite you to…
“Stop it, Allegra,” I chastise myself as I stare at the sad-looking heels section of my closet shoe rack.
I left the office half an hour early, weaved through traffic, and stabbed the elevator button for Kyle’s high-rise condominium like I was being chased, all to raid my closet for the perfect outfit that somehow yells, “Pop the question so we can feast on ridiculously overpriced fine dining and have celebratory sex!”
In spite of what my best friends and law firm partners, Damon and Lea think, and the faulty instincts I inherited from Mom to me it matters what I wear to take my first steps into our betrothed future.
So, it’s the red suede heel versus the black patent leather slingbacks.
“Ugh,” I groan. They’re the sexiest pairs I own, though neither are giving me “marriage material” vibes.
With a sweep of my fingers through my razor-cut hair, I suck up my pride and whip out my laptop to send a ViddyChat invite. After a few minutes, Damon and Lea pop into their tiny squares on the screen. They’re still in the office. Their twitching lips and rapid blinking tell me they’re ready to be entertained.
With a skyward flick of my eyes, I heave a sigh.
“I’m only calling you to help me figure out what to wear.”
“Good because we only answered to talk some sense into you,” Lea quips as she bats her fringe of mink eyelashes.
Let’s just say, a marriage with Kyle isn’t something Lea’s dying to see on my menu, even if it is at a fancy French restaurant. She’s an endgame person who reads self-help books and listens to “Best Practices of Successful People” podcasts on her daily drive. She’s all about tough love. She focuses only on the things we can control…even if they’re the hardest.
On the “loyalty principle,” she loathes Kyle, and thinks I can do better than a materialistic man who works late (because he’s building a telecommunications empire), breaks dates (Rome was not built between nine to five), and detests “backyard barbecues.” Which, that last one concerns me but I’m not in love with his family functions either. Well, function. I’ve only been to the one. Though, I’ll take loud music, dominoes and Spades, and dancing in the delicious-smelling smoky air over his parents quiet—I’m talking pin-drop quiet—dinner with his mom politely smiling at me between bites.
Yeah, sue me. Hello? It’s called compromise.
So what if I’ve only met his parents once in two years, how is that a red flag?
A placating smile stretches Lea’s full, wine-stained lips. I sense she’s ready to call me on my shit. But I’m not wrong about tonight.
I slip on one heel from each pair and twist, giving the camera my best angles.
“Red or black?” I ask, ignoring Lea’s unsolicited commentary, for which I neither have the time nor the patience. It’s 5:40. Kyle will be back and ready to leave by 6:20 for our seven o’clock reservation. I still haven’t picked an outfit or even thought about which of my gazillion lipsticks to wear.
I clear my throat and arch an eyebrow expectantly at the screen.
“Any thoughts, D?” Not that Damon ever comments on my outfits. I’m only asking to take some of the steam out of the argument I sense brewing inside Lea.
In true diva form, Lea tosses me a blank stare. Then she tucks a blown-out, ebony strand of hair behind her diamond-studded ear before she deems to lower her chin to survey my heels.
Now, this is my fault. For a nanosecond, I think she’s going to bite her tongue and help her best friend.
But she promptly reminds me she is Lea Cook “Always be Closing,” attorney at law. Her truth will be heard.
This is the triple-edged sword of our friendship. Whether it’s brutal honesty or simply being present while one of us licks our wounds, The Trio always comes first. It’s the unwritten, binding consideration always at stake. Just like Lea and I pretend Damon’s old hip-hop dance crew moves are still funky fresh. Unless she’s way off base with a case, Damon and I let Lea take the lead. For our own sanity. And when necessary, they’re always ready to tell me when I’m confusing “fun for now” with forever.
In law school, we forged an unbreakable bond then promptly applied the contracts, compliance, and legal issues terminology we learned to ourselves. Our friendship was binding— enforceable via tough love, on an as needed basis—and irrevocable.
It stuck.
Now, we’re Allegra Malone, Damon Dawson, and Lea Cook, esteemed partners at Malone, Dawson, & Cook, LLP, an intellectual property and technology law firm. The business was both conceived and masterminded in the library stacks during our days at William S. Boyd School of Law, where we first became The Trio. We’re a badass legal team, weeding out the copy-pasters of the world who consider it business as usual to profit off stolen ideas. Patent, trademark, copyright, trade secret infringements, we do it all. Which means our needle-sharp minds pierce straight through bullshit to determine what’s real.
And Lea’s about to use hers to talk some tough love.
“Al, you and Kyle are about to fly to Hawaii on Thursday for your brother’s wedding. Aaron doesn’t need his mopey big sister looking butthurt during the ceremony because you thought Kyle was going to propose. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but he won’t.”
Lea closes her eyes like continuously stressing her opinion that my spastic nerves are “merely the foolishness of a hopeless romantic,” is exhausting for her.
Because, of course, she will.
I love hearing how my relationship instincts are shit.
This is the “as needed” part I mentioned. Have I had a string of bad relationships? Yes. Am I in love with love? Yes, but name a woman who grew up watching Disney movies who doesn’t want her happily ever after.
“This is not a me thing, Le,” I say defensively when Damon snickers. This undoubtedly means he agrees with Lea, but he’s attempting to appear neutral. I’m about to tell him to pick a side when I realize, to them, my reasoning is circumstantial. Unless I can help them see things from my perspective…
Shit. Where did Kyle put the invitation?
“What’s different about tonight?” Lea, prepared to die on this hill, doesn’t miss a beat. I let her continue with her rant as I walk over to Kyle’s nightstand. Seeing nothing on top, I pull out the drawer, searching for a glimpse of the blue cardstock. Underneath a stack of papers, I find the remote control that’s been “lost” for the past two days, EarPods, lube, and…extra-large condoms “for big guys”?
I spit out a laugh because…yeah, no. I know first-hand what the man isn’t working with in the family jewels department.
Kyle is tall, lanky, thin, and blond with a clean-shaven, store-bought-tan baby face. He wears slim-cut suits I can’t even get my thigh into, and size nine shoes, so…just…no.
“What?” Damon asks, a smile quirking his full lips.
Now, Damon could probably fill… Wait, what? Uh, no. He’s family, Allegra.
Lea and I have been down this route about my ancient college crush on Damon. You don’t risk throwing your best friend into your messy dating life, no matter how attracted you are to him.
“This is…” I shake my head, shoving the crazy, awkward thought aside. “Nothing, I was looking for the invitation…nothing.” I laugh it off.
Pushing the drawer closed, I remember Kyle bringing up his gym bag, along with a few more donation boxes, from his trunk yesterday. Some people do spring cleaning, Kyle does summer purging.
“That’s what you’re looking for? I don’t need to see the invitation.” Lea laughs. “He’s just taking you out to grab a quick bite to eat. You’re acting like this is the Met Gala and he’s got Tiffany’s on standby.”
I dip out as she’s talking to check the living room, then kitchen. As I turn back to the bedroom to check the closet that’s when I overhear Lea drilling in on her “quick bite” angle.
“At Mots Doux?” I shoot her a pointed stare. “First, it’s a new French restaurant in Southern Highlands. Second, it’s formal wear, invitation-only, and upward of 1,000 dollars a plate—”
Damon blows out his cheeks. He releases an impressed whistle. “Fuck. A 1,000-dollar bite, Al?”
“Relax, I’m sure he got the invitation as a kickback from a client,” Lea says, undeterred. “Even if he didn’t, the man invented ViddyChat, for Christ’s sake. Look at his condo.” She holds out her palm, glossing over the fact I call this place home, too. “A couple grand isn’t a big deal for him. Trust me, this is just dinner.”
Her certainty—based on my dating history, there’s a fifty-fifty chance she’s probably right—grates on my nerves as I duck into the closet.
It’s the principle.
Is it so farfetched that a man would want to propose to me?
“Al, I know I’m being hard on you, but it’s because I love you,” Lea says. “If you can give me three reasons why you’re in love with him, I’ll rest my case.”
I open my mouth to argue that Kyle is…well, he’s…and I…but we…
“All I’m saying is, don’t settle unless you love him.” Lea’s voice is soft and sympathetic. “I’m begging you, as your friend who loves you and the legal counsel representing your heart. Marriage shouldn’t be worth settling for. Don’t make tonight about anything other than a meal with your bougie boyfriend.”
Damon smiles.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a laugh because she’s not wrong. Not that I’ll let her know as much.
If there’s one thing Kyle loves, it’s flaunting his money. Everything is always, “Drinks all around!” and slipping the black card to the server before anyone else gets out their wallets with him.
“Whatever, Le,” I say, spotting Kyle’s duffel peeking out from underneath a pile of discarded clothes on the floor in the back of the closet--next to his laundry basket and still-unpacked suitcase. I tug the bag free and plop down on the floor.
“Al, you lead with your heart when…maybe you should shield it,” Damon says, jolting me from my stupor. But I stop to listen, anyway. A person as quiet as Damon Dawson makes you listen when he finally talks. I know it’s going to be something worth hearing.
“What are you saying, D?” I swallow. “You think I shouldn’t be with Kyle?”
My heart revs with anticipation, jackhammering against my chest. It’s one thing, having Lea make a case in her no-nonsense, face-the-facts manner. But this is Damon, who stays out of anything dating related—my rumpled, sweet best friend who guards my drinks in clubs, the guy who keeps an extra bottle of Louisiana hot sauce in his fridge in case I stop by, a man who schedules his entire calendar around our Trio Wednesday dinners.
“He’s cool enough, I guess.” Damon shrugs. There’s no conviction in his tone until he asks, “Is Kyle who you really want to be with? I know you’ve been together for a while. I can’t speak for Le, but I’m going to be real with you. I didn’t see this being a ‘forever’ thing.” He presses his enormous fist to his lips, the muscles at his jaw taut with concern.
“Yeah,” I say.
It’s so strange. Thirty minutes ago, I’d been 1,000 percent sure about my future with Kyle. I know we’ve had issues I chose to ignore, but why does Damon’s opinion of him bother me so much? Why am I now looking at Kyle—at any future we’d have together—with fresh eyes? Have I been leading with my heart?
I’m a thirty-six-year-old hopeless romantic. Of course, I want love and marriage. Not so much the white picket fence or the kids just yet, but I want my “happily ever after” all the same. I want to travel. I want to explore with my other half. I want to dance like we’re drunk. I want us to laugh at corny “Am I the Asshole” tweets. Ninety percent of the time, if you need to ask, the answer is yes. I want to watch old movies together and experience them anew because I’m watching them with him. Otherwise, what have I been doing? Why even date?
Lea’s expression softens. “We don’t want to see you hurt again, Al.”
“I know.”
I turn back to Kyle’s duffel. The air feels charged when I tug open the zipper. My breath hitches. My heart slows to a thud. I physically cannot close my mouth. The expensive-looking navy cardstock isn’t there, but inside his tennis shoe is a small teal box—the perfect size to fit an engagement ring.
Maybe it hasn’t all been lip service and empty promises. Maybe my instincts are just fine.
Anxiety swirls in my gut.
Before I officially freak the heck out, I pry open the lid, needing to confirm it’s not another pair of stud earrings.
A sparkly two-carat solitaire on a white gold band blinds me. The diamond is bigger than I would’ve ever needed. The setting is simple and delicate, yet majestic somehow. It makes me excited in a way I’d hoped I’d feel whenever--if ever—I were to get engaged, no matter how farfetched it seemed.
“Al?” Damon calls my name.
It might be the reality of holding a gorgeous engagement ring in my hand and knowing it’s for me, but butterflies soar in my stomach. My heart cartwheels in my chest like it’s a summer day in a field of swaying heather.
I slowly slide the ring onto my finger. A seed of hope burrows into my mind and heart, taking root.
“So, if Kyle were to propose, you think I should say no?” I ask before lifting my gaze. My voice is as stilted, as unsure as I feel.
Damon scrubs a hand over his face, the muscles at his jaw tightening. “Only you can decide, Al. Do you really think he’s going to ask?”
I suck in a lungful of air, hold out my left hand to the camera, and listen as my two best friends gasp in disbelief.
“Oh my goodness,” Lea breathes the words.
But Damon says nothing. And this is the moment I need him to voice his opinion most and be real with me, not tell me he doesn’t think what Kyle and I share isn’t a “forever thing.” I need him to explain in vivid detail why. Or why not.
What does he know or see that I don’t? If Kyle isn’t for me, then who is? And what the heck is taking him so long?
Lea cuts straight to the chase. “What are you going to do?”
I’m still, my nerves on edge, waiting for my brain to autofill a response. But the only thing that comes to me is, “I don’t know.”
