All of the madness that’s unraveled my well-orchestrated life in the last two weeks solely rests on the fact I accidentally made a friend. And now the fact my once wonderful yet mediocre life has been usurped and is currently in hostage negotiations with the bank, it only expounds on the fact I hate friends and I hate people. You see, exactly one week prior to stepping on the landmine of friendship, I paid off my Range Rover in full. It was an early yet fiscally sound birthday gift to myself. I don’t believe in debt, and that quadruple digit car payment made me angsty enough to want to sell my eggs on the black ovarian market. But before I parted with a potential fetus, or lost one more night’s sleep counting green sheep that morphed into fleeting dollar bills, I decided to empty out my savings and rid myself of the mountain of debt—thus enjoying the fruits of my labor and the masterful craftsmanship of British engineering whom I lovingly call Frank—named after the car salesman who cinched the deal.

Enter Low. Harlow—Low—Hartley is a walking dark cloud, and she wasted no time in raining down her disastrous fury over my life. She is plain old bad luck, karma gone cosmically very freaking wrong. Even if I had decorated myself with every horseshoe on the planet, there was no way to protect myself from her bumbling, slipping and sliding on five-inch stilettos based wrath. So, it’s really no coincidence that after bothering to foster a friendship—something I am loathe to do—soon thereafter with one swift blow of an adjective—one that I never expected to hear—I watched as my well-orchestrated life imploded from order to chaos.

What would that adjective be, you might ask? Fired. As in without gainful employment, out of work, on the dole, expelled, canned, sacked, and ironically axed. Axel Collins comes to mind, and I swat him from my consciousness like the loathsome gnat he’s become. It’s true. I was once sacked by an Ax—the irony of which is that he is now my ex and is holing up in this same one cow town that I happen to reside in, Hollow Brook. Actually, that may not be true. For all I know he’s holed up in Jepson, a hop and a skip away from this one cow town I happen to call home. Nevertheless, it’s too close, but then again, there isn’t enough cosmic distance the universe could provide to keep him a good length away from me. Break my heart once and shame on me—break my heart twice—well, that will never happen because I no longer have a heart for him to break. Axel Collins marked an end of an era in my life, the very last arena of subjection that was out of my control. At least up until two weeks ago when the cuisine gods at Food Crack Nation lowered their fiery scepter and incinerated the contract I had with them. No thanks to my new friend, Low, and her harebrained idea to pretend that it was me dating her best friend’s brother and not the other twisted way around, everything in my life has toppled in quick succession like a domino rally gone bad.

It’s nine forty-five on a hellish Friday morning and I’m still lacking caffeine, a workout, not to mention my weekly online reward purchase for merely surviving in a world full of wolves parading around as humans. I looked forward to that monetary splurge with gleeful anticipation because it also had the ability to kick-start my weekend in the right trajectory. Instead, here I am, two weeks into my unemployed state, sans any financial prospects on the near horizon, awaiting a mortgage counselor to drop off an arm full of pamphlets while secretly scoping out my home’s worth for that dreaded moment it goes up on the auction block. Not to mention the fact I’m all out of the primo Ethiopian blend coffee I had drop-shipped to my doorstep every other week like a well-engineered Swiss clock. It was yet another splurge in a long line of splurges that have recently met their fiscal demise, such as an expired membership to the gym that I can’t afford to renew which means no hot, cold, or naked yoga—and all those sales fliers retailers have been flooding my inbox with—tempting me with their free shipping and extra 15% off discounts which have been promptly deleted. Now if only I could figure out a way to delete this headache, my jobless status, and Axel Collins from the planet—the universe and I might actually be on speaking terms once again.

I once ran my life like a tight ship, rising at five thirty, coffee, walk the dog, gym, coffee once again—this time at Hallowed Grounds, hit the office, hit all of the scrumptious locales that as a food critic I was commanded to visit, call my little sister, call my big brother, read a few chapters in the book sitting dutifully on my nightstand, sleep well, and repeat. It was a glorious life and one I regret ever putting on the line for something as foolish as a friendship. Thus it brings me full circle. I really hate friends. And I really hate people.

Strudel, my two-year-old French Bulldog with fur the shade of a colorless day, sniffs around the fuzzy pug slippers my brother, Marlin, gave me last Christmas. He said he couldn’t find a dog like Strudel, but that these were close enough. That’s Marlin in a nutshell. Close enough has always kept him content in all areas of his life. Can’t make it as a fireman? Join the Jepson PD. Close enough. Can’t get a girlfriend of your own? Date your best friend’s. Close enough. Can’t make it as a racecar driver? Watch the Jepson 500 on TV. Close enough. That last one is the kicker. Marlin spent his entire life driving racecars, had a sponsor for years, but he never did qualify for the big one. But that’s the difference between Marlin and me. He’s content to let life steamroll him whenever the heck it sees fit. I’m more inclined to take it by the horns, force it to go in the direction I’m demanding it to, and then killing the bull just to make sure it stays there.

Nevertheless, Marlin is a whole six years older than me. He was already out of the house when our mother took off. And two years after that, our father collapsed at his desk and died of a heart attack over a stack of insurance papers. Marlin was already married and divorced by then. Yes, our family has been slowly eroding off the planet for as long as I can remember. Even my poor Aunt Priscilla died in a major car wreck not long after my father bit the big one. Marlin and I have spent the last decade and a half looking after our younger sister, Serena, and Aunt Priscilla’s kids, Rush and Sunday. Their brother, Nolan, is up there in age with Marlin, and with his help we knit together a motley crew of a family. Uncle Chuck, Aunt Priscilla’s grieving widower, is still alive and kicking and as oblivious as always when it comes to anything other than New York real estate. New York real estate doesn’t mean all that much when your home base is in Hollow Brook, North Carolina.

Strudel whines hard and does a little potty dance at my feet.

“Hush, you.” I head to the door and check my face in the mirror, seaweed sleep mask still in place, bloodshot eyes from the tears I will go to my grave denying ever existed, my crimson-colored hair still coiled neatly in sponge rollers to give me that effortless tousled look I spend ten hours trying to achieve.

I sneak a glimpse out the side window and note the back end of a particularly hairy sheepdog relieving himself on my lawn and gasp.

“It’s the pooper!” I hiss to Strudel, and he sits at rapt attention. I may not need or desire a single human being in my life, sans my family, but Strudel does his best to worship me dutifully like no human ever could. His forehead wrinkles with curiosity, his tiny head cocks to the side as if intent to hear more. “It’s every single day I tell you. And this, my friend, is the last day that beast drops a smelly hot brownie on my front lawn.” I’ve been picking up this dopey dog’s dung day after day while his moronic owner, an elderly woman with gray hair and an obnoxious matching mustache, looks to the street as if she were oblivious to her dog’s anal dealings. I don’t care about her elderly state of being. She’s the ageist if she thinks it’s fair I play pooper-scooper after her dog droppings.

“Ha!” I bark as I fling the door open and fly down the porch. The hairy beast stops midflight in his brownie delivery as both he and his owner attempt to scuttle down the street. “Stop, thief!” I shout. But the only person to turn around is my treacherous neighbor as tall and round as a stump who does nothing but smoke cigarettes and pass judgment on whoever gets locked in her sight while molesting her anxiety riddled Chihuahua all the livelong day. I’ve heard her unrequited commentaries on the innocent passersby one too many times. I couldn’t care less about her or her roving lung-cancer-in-the-making opinion. “I said stop!” I roar as I scuttle my fastest in these cumbersome pug slippers, clearly not intended for the unevenly paved sidewalks of downtown Hollow Brook. No sooner do I jump in front of the gray-haired granny who’s stolen my sanity for the last six months than an SUV skids on its brakes, stopping inches from sending Strudel to the great doggie beyond.

“Oh God!” I bolt into traffic and ignore the honking and yelling of a passing minivan while scooping Strudel safely in my arms.

“Lexy?”

I look up to find standing in front of me—in front of the still running SUV that almost introduced Strudel to the rainbow bridge, a suit clad Axel Collins, those bright gray eyes wide with concern, those full kissable lips parted and panting. His dress shirt stretches taut with the sheer mass of his expansive chest, and that warm yet familiar cologne slowly pulls me back to a different day long ago when life didn’t involve imperiled mortgages and obnoxious exes.

Oh fudge. Heck, I think this occasion warrants an expletive or two. Shit, shit, shit!

I hobble back to the sidewalk, only to find the mustache lady and the cigarette wielding tree stump gesticulating about something while the Chihuahua and the sheepdog sniff the business end of one another. I’m not about to let the mustache lady amble away freely just because Axel Dog Dodger Collins has shown up on the scene.

“You got a problem with her, lady?” The tree stump screws her face up in a knot, and that ridiculous expression only makes me want to kick her.

“Darn right, I have a problem with her.” I lean in toward the mustache lady herself and give a few quick blinks. That whole mustache on a woman thing is a bit jarring at this close proximity. “How dare you come here day after day expecting me to do your dirty work!” I thunder so loud my voice comes back to me as an echo. “I suggest both you and your mangy dog find another neighborhood to terrorize with his hind end because this is the last time I bend over for either of you hairy, scary beasts. You had better get lost quick. And if you ever show your fuzzy face again, I’m going to personally drop kick you both across the street! Get a clue and a razor—that was your last brownie bonanza on my front lawn.”

“My God”—Stumpy pipes up, and I glance over to find her capturing the incident on her phone—“you are a monster, Ms. Range Rover, Louis Vuitton, pug feet with the bright red door!”

“Ah-ha!” I swing a finger in her direction, and Strudel burrows his face into my bosom. “I knew you were judging me.” I take a step into the prying eye of her camera. “Well, Ms. Judgey McJudgernuts, I hate you and your little dog, too!” The tiny whippet barks and nips as if returning the sentiment.

“All right, ladies,” a deep, warm voice rumbles from behind, and I turn slowly, eviscerating him with all of the hate-filled beams I can afford. Axel’s eyes round out as he blinks a nervous smile. “I think I see the problem here.”

My mouth falls open wide at the audacity of this nitwit, albeit drop-dead gorgeous nitwit—suddenly, my ovaries feel rather unsafe at this close proximity—the nerve he has to inject himself into my day, into my life without so much as an invite.

“Don’t worry! I have all the footage I need.” Stumpy snaps up her yippee little rat and scampers back to her hidey-hole.

But Axel doesn’t release me from his hypnotic gaze. I hike up on my tiptoes, bringing me dangerously close to those full lips I might have regretfully fantasized about a time or twelve.

“I don’t think you see the problem here. The problem here is that this waste of human skin”—I turn my attention back to Hairy Granny and a tiny part of me bubbles with regret at my word choice—“sees fit to make a craptastic deposit on my front lawn each and every day as a means to absolve herself of doggy doody for the rest of her numbered days.” I lean in hard toward the beady-eyed woman and note the start of a cactus-like beard already prickling through her skin. “I don’t care if you’re a hundred years old. I wouldn’t care if you were one hundred weeks old! You and your furry little flea bag had better find another lawn to decorate with ding dongs!”

The woman looks to Axel with her unmoved expression and makes a few hand gestures, inspiring him to make a few hand gestures back.

“What’s going on?” I pull Strudel in close and cover his ears in the event a nuclear-sized verbal detonation is readying to lob my way.

“Lexy—she’s deaf.” Axel offers a lopsided smile that quickly glides off his face.

I suck in a breath and cover my mouth in horror. I’m a horrible person by design, of course—but I would never do something like this, and then it hits me. Dear God, I’ve done it.

“That’s right!” Stumpy howls from across the street. “You’re a terrible human being! A witch! A holy terror!”

“Oh, shut up, you!” I bark before looking back at the mustache lady and mouthing I’m sorry while making the sign of the cross—the only sign language I’m even vaguely familiar with.

It takes six seconds for me to scuff my little pugs back to my walkway and trot up the porch. In a moment, Axel is beside me, his fingers on mine as I reach for the door.

I suck in a sharp breath. “Oh my God, you will lose your hand and that plaything you beat with it if you don’t take a full step away from my body this instant.”

Ax hops back as if escaping a fire, and I hop into the house with the exact same sentiment. I bolt the door shut, leaning against it while my chest heaves uncontrollably, but it has nothing to do with that unfortunate run-in with the poor deaf mustache lady, or Stumpy, whom I might inevitably kill in the night. Instead, it has everything to do with the fact I can’t control my breathing, my hormones, or my nonexistent heart whenever that rat is within throat punching range of my being.

I can’t stand that he still has the power to evict this reaction from me. And even more than that, I can’t stand myself for having it.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my seaweed mask melting from my face, my hair spraying out of the rollers, my eyes bloodshot with rage. Yes, it’s safe to say life has spiraled wildly out of control. There’s only one way out of this mess. Tomorrow night at Low and Levi’s engagement party, I will grind my heel into this budding friendship that’s taken my life down like a wildfire. But not before I grind my heel into Axel Collins’ heart one last time for having the audacity to show up at my front door, nearly killing my dog—calling me Lexy no less. Yes, I may be having a run of bad luck, but sooner than later I’ll get back into the driver’s seat of my life and run over that witch, karma, myself.

It’s the least I can do with that darn Range Rover.

* * *

Hallowed Grounds is brimming with people this Saturday afternoon. The heavenly scent of percolating java has my lips begging to turn upward, but I deny them the effort. It’s not that I’m an unhappy person—I’m more of a practical person who happens to be acutely aware of the fact happiness is just an illusion prepackaged by modern media to make you believe you’re missing out on something big. The only thing you’re missing out on is what’s in front of you. Once people stop chasing some imaginary carrot and realize they have everything they need to survive, they can finally get on with it and stop harassing others to fill some imaginary void. That’s precisely why I don’t need a man in my life. Axel was my first and final foray into what Hallmark has boxed and prepackaged as the L word, and I’m thrilled to report that failed experiment has solidified the fact I can be more than content without a plus one. As much as I don’t need Axel in my life, I do miss his sister, Emilia. She was as close to having a true friend in my life as I’ve ever had. That is, up until I met Low. On occasion, I had even let myself believe that Emilia would have made the best sister-in-law. God, I miss her.

Hallowed Grounds smells like java heaven, and I scan the place for signs of Serena and Sunday. Serena sent a group text and asked me to meet the two of them here for a quick cup of joe. Of course, I would never say no to that request. Serena and Sunday are two people I would gladly rearrange my schedule for. Although seeing that I’m jobless, soon-to-be homeless, and without a single yoga mat to occupy, Serena and Sunday are the only show in town.

I order a cup of coffee, black, no frap, no frills, just as the two of them walk in like a ball of sunshine, laughing and strapping me with arms as we exchange a quick embrace. The girls pick up their drinks and follow me to the back where we take a seat among the throngs glued to their laptops. Hallowed Grounds is one of Hollow Brook’s premiere coffeehouses. It holds a soft spot in the hearts of most people who live here because all of the local universities happened to have one planted on campus.

“What’s up?” I ask, landing Poppy on her very own seat. Poppy is the moniker I gifted my Louis Vuitton Neverfull after I purchased it. The name comes from its bright red lining I selected. I’ve worked hard for everything I have and I aptly take care of and personify all my prized possessions, such as Frank, my Range Rover, who kindly transported me to this sunny little meet and greet this morning. Who I’m only slightly ticked off at for eviscerating my bank account. It’s not his fault I upgraded to the butter leather alpaca-colored seats and twin sunroofs.

They whisper amongst themselves before breaking out into cheery cackles. Sunday is blonder than her brothers, Rush or Nolan, and gorgeous as any supermodel. Serena is my doppelganger with the same crimson hair and deep green eyes. She’s a knock-out, which is why I’m beyond relieved that she’s currently enrolled in her first year at Barnes University, an all-girls’ school right here in Hollow Brook just down the road from the far more hormonally infused Whitney Briggs where poor Sunday has opted to spend the next four years of her life fighting the frat boys off with a stick. Which reminds me, I need to arm her with a can of Mace and a set of nunchakus, too.

“I got a job at the Black Bear!” Serena bounces in her seat with enthusiasm.

“What?” I squawk so loud half the establishment turns my way. “You’re kidding, right?” I clutch at my chest with relief before she lets me off the hook. There’s no way in H-E-double hockey sticks my baby sis would ever entertain getting a paycheck from that romp and stomp university bar. The Black Bear Saloon is nothing but a notorious hookup spot that acts as a sex ring for the surrounding universities. It’s clear Serena is just trying to soften the blow for something far less offensive in her life that she’s afraid to unload on me. It’s a game we’ve played since our mother ran off to the other side of the country to shack up with some loser ex she claimed still held her black frozen heart. I took on the mama bear role in Serena’s life ever since, and, if you ask me, we’re both better for it. My mother, Wendy, always said she would take off for Neverland one day, and sure enough, she made good on that morbid promise. She lacked the maternal instinct from the get-go.

“I’m not kidding.” She smacks Sunday on the arm for laughing as if this were the funniest thing in the world. “The gig at the bookstore didn’t work out.” She shoots Sunday another side-glance, and she quickly clams up as if the two of them were hiding far more than some summer job gone awry. “In fact”—Serena bites down hard on her lower lip, a maneuver she’s invoked a thousand times while holding back either laughter or tears, and right now I’m hoping for the latter—“the university didn’t quite work out like I planned.”

“What?” My voice cuts through the air like a machete, and the two of them straighten.

“Kidding!” Serene throws her arms up and breaks out into a wailing laugh.

“Oh, thank God.” My phone buzzes, and it’s a text from Low.

See you in two hours and don’t be late! I’ve got news that will knock your designer socks off!

I glare at the screen as if it were Low herself. I’d like to knock her socks off. And I will tonight when I bring this ridiculous friendship to a grinding halt.

Sunday proceeds to tell the two of us all about her adventures at Whitney Briggs, and I can’t help but note the sullen, I’m missing out look on my sister’s face.

“My new roommate, Trixie, is certifiable in a good way.” Sunday salutes me with her drink as if subtly commenting on my own mental health. I’ve been known to have the reputation of an ice queen, but at the end of the day the ice queen is who I chose to be in order to survive the arctic waters my mother tossed me in all those years ago upon her departure. “She’s a total blast because she’s basically fearless. Her brother, Knox, and Rush are best friends, too, so that’s kind of cool.”

Serena scoffs at the thought. “I’d poke my eyes out with a fork if Marlin were running around on campus.” She plucks her straw from her drink and proceeds to mimic the action. “Especially if he were befriending my roommate’s cute brother.”

“He is cute.” Sunday butts her shoulder to Serena’s, and they share another earth-shattering laugh.

“So what’s the big news?” I lean back, studying my sister with renewed interest. “Surely you didn’t haul yourselves out here to tell me about your nonexistent position at the Black Bear?” The two of them exchange a nervous glance. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it. “Come on, spill. Nothing can be as bad as working at the Black Bear. What’s really going on? Let me guess.” I pull my sister’s hand toward mine in an effort to comfort her. “You’re too afraid to tell me that you’re not taking a full course load?”

No sooner does Serena open her mouth than a tall, dark, pain in the behind walks in strutting his stuff in a suit on a Saturday of all days.

“Mother F,” I bleat under my breath, and both Serena and Sunday turn to look at what’s hijacked my attention.

“Hello, handsome,” Sunday whispers.

“Come to Mama,” Serena hums before straightening in her seat. “Hey, isn’t that—”

My heart starts to palpitate, my blood pressure spikes to unsafe levels. Axel gives a quick look around before locking eyes with mine and I’m paralyzed, unable to breathe or think or feel. He breaks out into his signature killer grin and heads in this direction as if he has the right.

“Look, why don’t you girls finish up your drinks. I gotta run.” I fling Poppy over my shoulder and snap my coffee off the table. “We’ll catch up soon. Serena, don’t mess with my head like that anymore. I’m in a fragile state as of late and I really can’t take it.” I blink a brief smile at Sunday. “Watch over this one, would you? And stay away from your roommate’s cute brother.” I try to zip past Axel and he steps in my path.

“Lexy.” He leans in with those pleading eyes, that sad, tired smile expanding my way, and my entire body flares with heat. It feels as if all of gravity is buried in his chest, and my body can’t help but demand to yield in his direction. Then I remember who he is and who he’ll never be to me again, and I make a run for the door.

* * *

WHERE ARE YOU? I NEED TO SEE YOUR MEAN FACE RIGHT NOW!

I scoff at the text Low just sent. I’d text her back if I wasn’t already standing in the entry of The Sloppy Pelican, a bar-slash-eatery that Axel and two of his cohorts thought it a good idea to plant in the middle of Hollow Brook. If anyone had asked me, I could have told them that this side of town is a graveyard for businesses and restaurants alike. The fact that old mining restaurant they bought out had quickly turned into the ghost town it was destined to be should have given them a clue. But then, Axel was never good with those, was he?

I glare at the elbow-to-elbow crowd as the sound of the house band sends pulsating thumps through me with every beat of the drum. The customer base is primarily made up of sorority girls of years gone by. If the Black Bear is the official frat brat hangout, then The Sloppy Pelican is the rapidly aging alumni section. Let’s just say copious amounts of alcohol and carbohydrates do not a pretty complexion make. The place is teeming with various versions of Barbiturate Barbie. Not that the male offerings are any better—men with beer paunches so pronounced you could play a board game with all that shelf space. And what’s with the Neanderthal-inspired follicles? Please tell me this trend is region specific to the west end of Hollow Brook and that the rest of male civilization still worships regularly at the altar of a razor wielding barber. A brief visual of me wielding a razor to Axel’s neck comes to mind, and before I can properly decapitate him I’m jumped by an over enthusiastic jumble of dirty blonde hair.

“I knew you’d show!” Low squeals in my ear so loud I can now hear orcas all across the planet howling out their long distance conversations.

“Geez.” I unleash myself from my one and only soon-to-be ex-friend. “Ease up on the caffeine, would you? One day someone’s going to sue you for assault.”

A dark-haired girl frowns at me from over Low’s shoulder. It’s her “bestie,” Raven, the one that technically started the entire fiasco the night I kissed Levi, Low’s boyfriend—it’s a long story, and I’m not dragging my short-term memory into this. I guess you could say Raven is equally responsible for the fact I got canned, so technically, I’ll be disenfranchising two people from my life tonight. Fine by me. Let the friendless good times roll.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Low shakes me by the shoulders as if we were long- lost sorority sisters. I happen to know that Low and Raven actually are sorority sisters, or were. They attended Whitney Briggs University together once upon a sexed-up time and blah, blah, blah. The whole how-I-met-my-bestie story bores me to tears.

Low sticks a diamond-clad finger in my face, and her entire face lights up like a firefly. Low sort of has a pixie appeal to her with her delicate features and slightly turned up nose. She’s undeniably pretty. They both are obviously beautiful, but I don’t hold their well-polished genes against them. Just simply everything else.

“Does this ring make me look engaged?”

I scowl at the sparkling treasure as if it personally offended me. It’s big—too big if you ask me. “It makes you look like you stuck a quarter in a gumball machine at the grocery store.” I twist my lips at Low, and something about the vulnerable way her eyes get squirrely right after I gift her the zinger endears me to her as if she were Serena. “And it’s nice. Yes, you look engaged. Did you dump Levi and meet a Rockefeller?” The truth is, as soon as Levi gifted that boulder to her, she texted me and I sent her a very cordial congratulations. That was exactly T minus five seconds from the moment I was evicted from gainful employment. It seems the better things go for Low, the worse they get for me. Either the universe has a twisted sense of humor or it’s experiencing a bout of temporary cosmic insanity. Judging by the state of the world, I’d bet the latter.

She wrinkles her nose at me. “Very funny. I’m thrilled you’re here, and I want you to know that”—her eyes moisten with tears, and her lips quiver the way Serena’s do when we’re having a heart-to-heart and the urge to coo at her as if she just morphed into a kitten overwhelms me—“I’d be honored to have you as one of my bridesmaids.”

“A what?” both Raven and I cry out at once.

Raven steps between us with her signature long raven-colored hair, dimples that look as if someone chiseled them out with an ice pick, and that same perplexed look on her face that I’m currently wearing. “You can’t—there’s no way I’ll let you—what in the hell, girl?”

I grunt at the expletive. Sure, I’ve been known to let an off-colored word fly now and again, but that’s only on occasion—say after a truck tire ran over my left foot, or the time I walked through a glass door and ended up with one hundred twenty stitches because the thing looked so damn clean. See? There it goes again. I know when and where to let them rip, and I refuse to be populating the world with them right along with the masses. They’re cheap, offensive, and make the user look aggressively stupid. And perhaps the fact my mother cursed like a sailor has a tiny bit to do with it. Wendy, in search of her Neverland, loved to lace even the most mundane thoughts with a curse word or twelve.

“I’m dead serious. I am formally asking Lex to be a bridesmaid.” Low bites the air between her and Raven before reverting to me. “I want to. I want you. Both my sister Lisa and Raven are my maids of honor, but I’d be so happy if you’d stand up for me right along with my other two sisters. I realize we’ve only known one another for a few months, but you were there for me during one of the toughest times in my life, and we were sort of ride or die the night we took off out of this place after that whole making out with Levi debacle.” She takes a moment to glower at me. “Which I’ve totally forgiven you for. So what do you say? You, me, the entire wedding party, right here in a few short weeks?”

“What?” both Raven and I squawk in unison again. My God, we have to stop doing that.

“That’s right.” Low wags that star sparkling on her finger in the air once again. “Levi and I have decided to get hitched right here in the bar. What better place to commemorate the night we first laid eyes on each other?”

“Didn’t you land behind bars that first night?” I’m quick to point out. “Perhaps your nuptials are better suited to be held at the Hollow Brook Police Department.” A part of me demands to stick a pin in that ginormous helium balloon Low has inflated with lust, or infatuation. The good Lord knows, she hasn’t known Levi all that long either.

“Details.” She rolls her eyes, and much to my relief my phone buzzes deep in my purse. I fish it out of Poppy. It’s a text from Serena.

Is this really you? What the hell are you thinking?! I cannot be your sister if you’ve devolved to this level. The poor woman was deaf for God’s sake!

“What?” I hiss, trying my best to click on the link she’s sent. Both Raven and Low gather to my side, but I couldn’t care less about their impromptu snooping. Serena sounds distressed, and what is she talking about—deaf?

A video pops up on my screen of me wagging my face and my finger at that mustache lady yesterday morning, and I gasp.

“Oh no!” My fingers fly to my lips because God knows I’m begging to let a few expletives fly myself.

“What’s this?” Low takes the phone from me and scrolls down a notch. “Who’s ChiwawaMama91, and why is she saying you’re this crazy woman with a green face and rollers?”

“What?” I snatch the phone back, and sure enough, the caption under the vile video reads my nasty neighbor Alexa Maxfield, food critic at Food Crack Nation, disparaging a disabled person in an explosive psychotic rant. Mrs. Gale is a vet who served this country as a photographer and lost her hearing in a roadside explosion while covering our troops. #fireElphaba “Judas Priest.” I bury the phone in my chest and give a caustic look around as if Stumpy might actually appear and I can promptly beat the shit out of her. That word! Gah!,

“Is that really you?” Raven takes the phone from me and the video plays again on a loop. “Yup, I can see fifty shades of wicked under that green flesh. How long does it take to apply your foundation in the morning, anyway?”

“Would you stop!” Low snatches the phone from her and shakes her head at the screen. “Oh no. It gets worse! Food Crack Nation was one of the first to respond.”

I snatch the phone back and read it. “Not to worry, we fired the wicked witch weeks ago for equally disparaging behavior.” I growl at the phone because I happen to know that Dan Rodgers is at the social media helm at my old place of employment. The next time I see that half car he folds himself into parked around town, I’m going to spit on his windshield.

Low pulls me back by the elbow as if we were about to brawl. “Is this true?”

Both she and Raven wear matching looks of horror.

“Yes, it’s true.” I give a quick glance into the crowd just as Levi comes over and burrows his face into Low’s neck.

Raven audibly gags. “Get a room.” She takes off for the bar proper and leaves me amidst the dry humping and the giggling.

“Come on.” Levi hitches his head toward the band. “I want to dance. I can feel a slow song coming on—one that might just be dedicated to you.” He glances up. “Oh, hey, Lex. Good to see you.” He waggles his brows. “Ax has been asking about you all night.”

“Stop being so terrible!” Low giggles as he steals her away. She does her best to look back. “Don’t you dare leave! I’m tackling you again in about five minutes!”

The music shifts to something softer and slower, a cover of “Key Largo” by Bertie Higgins. I know the song well because for the brief time Low was living with me she played it on an endless mind-numbing loop. Apparently, it’s her song, her father’s song, and now it’s their song. I groan at the idea of a couple’s song in general. It’s all so codependent I can vomit.

Shockingly, my high heels scuttle me deeper into the restaurant and not toward the exit like I demanded. Ax and his buddies decided to keep the old miner décor when they took it over, and I will admit I love the old world feel, the rustic cracked plank floors, the distressed picnic tables, and reclaimed wood lining the walls. The Mason jars they serve their drinks in and the cutlery that looks as if it’s hand-hewn from silver tree branches add to the charm. It’s cozy and the food is terrific, or at least it is now that Low revamped the menu. Honestly, after hearing the horror stories of the previous menu, they’re pretty lucky I never gave them that first critique a few months back. That’s the night I walked into this place and right back out once I saw Axel standing smug at the helm of the bar. He took my breath away in that business attire he’s known to sport at all hours of the day. Axel in a well-tailored Italian suit has always been my weakness. That’s pretty much when everything went to hell in a Low-shaped handbasket. I take a few steps deeper into the lively establishment, trying my best to shake Axel Collins right out of my head and bump into a body—Axel Collins himself.

“Lexy,” he says it so soft, his brows dipped into a hard V with a level of concern on his face that I’ve never seen before, and just like that my next breath is knocked right out of me. It’s almost unfair the way my body demands to react to his. My blood pressure spikes, my cheeks slap with heat, and my thighs—they are the biggest traitors of them all the way they quiver for him. It all amounts to an unspoken invitation that my body gifts his without my permission. “Raven just told me about the video.”

The man standing next to him that looks like an overgrown frat boy shakes his head. “Dude, it’s going viral.”

Ax smacks him in the gut without breaking eye contact with me. “Is that why you requested the material on refinancing? I’ll help you, Lexy. I want to.”

Lexy? Throttle him, I tell myself. I swallow hard, trying to fight the instinct. Ax knows better than to call me that. It’s as if he’s purposefully trying to incite a homicide. And if I’ve learned anything from Low’s fiasco, it’s that Ax isn’t opposed to throwing an innocent woman into the pokey for the night.

“Wait”—my mind screeches to a halt before I actually go nuclear on him for purposefully calling me a name that I feel genuine disdain for—“how did you know I requested the material on refinancing?”

He gives a quick grimace, and if he’s smart he’ll run for the hills. “My father just bought out Mortgage Makers. Half the employees quit, so I volunteered to drop a few documents off. I swear I didn’t know it was for you.”

A breath gets locked in my throat as I glance around like a caged cat plotting my escape. The song comes to an abrupt end, and I beeline over to Low and her perky friend Raven who can’t seem to drift two feet from each other.

“Look, Low—I’d better get going.” No sooner do I get the words out than she accosts me with another lung crushing embrace.

“You’ll do no such thing. What are you going to do for work?” Low looks as if it’s her world that’s dissolving before her very eyes.

“Nothing.” Raven taps those overblown lips of hers with her hand. “Sorry, but you’re like a pariah. You’re trending on Twitter and not in a good way.”

“Trending? I’ve spent my entire life sidestepping anything that remotely smelled like a trend.” I’m dying. I’m dead. I’ll never work again. I’ll be the new cart lady in front of Hallowed Grounds that everyone buys coffee for just to pat their own backs as if they’ve truly contributed to the world. I’ll be Hollow Brook’s token psychotic bag lady who screams at the top of her lungs all day long, but little will they know I’ll lucidly be cursing a small majority of the very people under this roof for this collision course my life is on.

Low shakes her head as a single tear glides down her rosy cheek, and it’s all for me. “I’ll help you get a job. I swear I’ll do whatever it takes to get your life back on track. You’re a good person. I’m sure that veteran who lost her ability to hear in a roadside bombing had it coming.” She clamps down on her lips so hard they turn white as paper.

Raven scoffs at her bestie because, obviously, she’s not feeling nearly as hormonal or human this evening. “Where are you possibly going to find her gainful employment in the entire tri-city area? Social media suicide is a contagion in this day and age. She’ll be unemployable for at least a decade. Maybe longer. The Internet has a way of keeping this kind of thing fresh and alive.” She shifts her dead eyes to mine. “You’ll be a meme by morning.”

I suck in a sharp breath at the thought.

“She has a job,” a deep voice strums from behind and I spin on my heels, ready to stab the overgrown frat boy at the other end of those deep vocal cords once he makes a crack about me working on my knees. But it’s not an overgrown frat boy. It’s Axel. “Here. At the bar. You can waitress. Prime hours. Tips are good, I promise.”

My heart thumps once as if it were trying to kick-start back to life. Just hearing him make yet another promise makes me numb on the inside for an entirely different reason.

“The hell she’ll work here.” Low scoffs. “Lex has too much pride to sit under the thumb of her ex.” She does her best to shoo him away like some obnoxiously oversized horsefly, but my eyes remain locked over his. There has always been something unfairly hypnotic about those gray lenses of his. Such a rare, complex color, and that about sums up our entire relationship, complex and rare and in the end very much over.

“I’ll do it.” I hear the words stream from my lips before my brain can process what’s just happened.

“What?” both Raven and Low cry out at once.

“You heard me.” I force the words to eject from my lips as I openly scowl at the budding elation in Axel Collins’ eyes. “I’ll take it.”