No.

Fuck no.

A million times no.

Leighton is better than this bullshit.

I need to be better than this bullshit.

I stare into my best friend’s blue-green eyes, but I can’t find her intentions.

Hawaii is gorgeous. I get that. Penny used to mock me for wanting to go someplace so “basic” for our honeymoon. The insult never made sense.

Basic is good.

Simple is good.

Easy is good.

Fuck knows I need easy.

Like me and Leighton.

Our friendship is easy.

So what the hell is with her intense stare?

Nobody wants to see the Aloha State that badly.

I shake my head. “I don’t want shit to get weird.”

My brother looks from me to her. He tries out that shit-stirring smile of his, but it doesn’t land.

He’s worried about her.

This is a stupid idea.

It must be the worst idea in the history of the planet if Dean’s concerned. The only thing he’s serious about is work. Even then, he pretends like everything he does is effortless.

“Yeah. Right. Of course.” She twirls a short, purple strand around her finger. “But what if it didn’t make things weird?”

“How could it not?”

“It’s just acting.” She taps the counter with her shiny silver fingernails. “I was Abigail Williams in The Crucible. I’ve performed more difficult roles.”

“More difficult than pretending you can tolerate Ryan?” Dean’s voices jumps back to bouncy. “Is that possible?”

“Not for most,” she teases. “But I’m a true thespian.”

“This is getting interesting.” He motions go on.

She rolls her eyes. “Are you fourteen? Even you are better than that.”

I shake my head. “He’s not.”

His smile jumps back to playful as he flips me off.

Leighton laughs. Her eyes find mine. They’re greener today. It must be that purple makeup. Or the teal and black cat-print dress. “I, uh. I do agree with Dean. It’s a stupid idea. But if you’re going to do it, you might as well do it with someone you trust.”

It’s a fair point.

But it’s not enough.

There are only three times my world brightens: when I’m doing a tattoo, when I’m working out, and when I’m with her.

I’m not risking that.

Not for something as stupid as proving I’ve moved on.

I stare into her eyes. “I’ll find a way to call it off.”

She nods sure, but her expression screams you won’t.

* * *

My client shows. I sit her down, clean her up, talk her through the first line of the day.

The world fades away as I fall into the piece—an epic sleeve of produce. This girl loves fruits and vegetables so much she wants them on her body forever.

It’s weird in a charming way.

She’s going against the grain.

Same way I did when I first walked into a tattoo shop. I never managed to please my parents, no matter how hard I tried. My B.A. in business is useful (not that I’d ever admit that to them), but it didn’t do anything to get them off my back.

I started apprenticing halfway through college. I always wanted to do tattoos but as soon as I actually put ink to skin—a spade on my ankle—I fell in love.

This is where I belong.

This is the place where everything makes sense.

Always.

For three hours, I work to the buzz of that gun and the breathy groan of Leighton’s favorite band.

Technically, no one is in charge of music. Technically, me, Dean, Walker, and Brendon each own a quarter of the shop.

We each get a quarter of the say.

Really, I’m the boss and Brendon is second in command. I do the books, I make the schedule, and I veto the music.

Only I let her listen to whatever.

It’s not altruistic.

I love the way she hums along with the music, tapping her toes, smiling as she swoons over some damaged lyricist.

Hell, it’s not just her reaction.

I love her miserable taste.

It’s comforting. Somebody else out there is as fucked-up as I am.

Thousands of screaming women adore this singer for all the pain in his breathy, raspy voice.

They love that he’s hurt.

They want to save him.

I guess I’m still a romantic at heart.

Deep down, I still believe in all that shit. Even if my head knows better.

The album shifts to the next as my appointment ends. I walk my client out, schedule our next session.

Leighton is still sitting behind the counter. She’s staring at something on her laptop, humming the melody of the angsty anthem flowing through the shop.

We have an understanding. As long as she does everything she needs to do for Inked Hearts, she’s free to use her time to work on whatever.

Like homework for her summer school class.

Her eyes flit from her computer. “Unless you’re about to show off my first-class ticket to Hawaii, save it. This is due at midnight.”

“The design?”

She nods. “Design 201.” Her eyes fix on the screen. She adjusts something with her mouse. “I don’t see tickets.”

“Leigh—”

“It won’t be weird. But suit yourself.” Her brow furrows as she leans back. Takes in the design again. She bites her lip.

I know that look.

It’s almost there.

But something is off.

“Let me see,” I say.

“It’s not done.”

“That’s why I can help.”

Her eyes meet mine. She stares at me, assessing my intentions.

I don’t get it. I don’t fuck with her the way Dean does. I don’t play everything cool the way Walker does. I… all right, according to Leighton, I “brood all over the place,” even more than Brendon does.

But I don’t do it at her.

I’m always clear about what I want.

“It’s not good enough,” she says.

Unlikely. Leighton is amazing. A better designer than I am. She does all the shop’s graphics. She slays them, but she never takes credit.

I press my palm against the counter. Stretch my fingers. I love this job like my life depends on it, but it’s too sedentary. I need to move. “I’m gonna go for a run. If you don’t want help—”

“I do. Thank you.” She turns the laptop to me to show off a green on white logo design. Health Express. “It’s a fictional fast casual restaurant. I want it to look healthy. Is the green too obvious?”

“Obvious is good.”

Her shiny silver nails tap the counter. “You… you aren’t saying anything.”

“It’s good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah.”

“Just good?”

“Great.”

“But?”

She taps the counter with her pointer finger. “Something’s missing.”

“I know that. I need to know what.”

I blink. Stare with fresh eyes. It’s a great design. Bold. Classic. But too busy. “Pick one, the eggplant or the name.”

“No name? All eggplant. Is that really—”

I chuckle. “That’s what you’re going for.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” She plays coy. “It’s a simple vegetable.”

“That’s shaped like a dick.”

“Never considered that.” She holds her poker face for a few moments.

It cracks.

Her laugh bounces around the room, drowning out every other sound.

I can’t help but smile. It feels so fucking good, seeing her like this. “Send it to me tonight. After you revise it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ll let you know what I think.”

“Thanks.”

There’s nothing left to say, but I don’t want to tear myself away from her. I want to linger at the counter, helping her with the design, teasing her about her taste in broken musicians, talking about nothing.

But there’s something in her expression.

Something that says leave me alone.

So I do.

* * *

With every stride, my thoughts unfurl. The messy lines straighten. Arrange themselves in order.

Fail to offer clarity.

Bringing some woman to Penny’s wedding is a terrible idea.

Pretending she’s my girlfriend is worse.

But there’s this voice in my head screaming you have to do this.

My phone buzzes against my thigh. I tell that voice to quiet and wish for distraction.

Leighton: It’s done. Just emailed you. Tell me it’s not horrible.

Ryan: On a run. I’ll check it out after I shower.

Leighton: It’s a million degrees.

Ryan: And?

Leighton: Are you dying?

Ryan: Yeah.

Leighton: You are not. You walk in here like you’re fresh from a shower after half your runs.

I snap a picture of my surroundings—the ocean, the Santa Monica pier, the busy Venice street, the bright lemon sun—then I turn my phone to selfie mode, and snap a picture of my sweaty shirt.

It’s hot as hell today.

But I don’t feel the embrace of the sun. I don’t see the brightness. I know it’s there—I always end these runs dripping sweat—but I miss the comfort of it.

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: Agree.

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.

Leighton: Look at it again. Pretend it isn’t you.

Fuck that. There’s no way I belong on a book cover. Even if it’s a pointless mock-up. I have nine years of Penny complaining about our pics to prove that.

But when I blink, I see it. Not in some damn, look at my hot bod kind of way.

There’s an ache there. Not just exhaustion and sweat, but something else.

It’s like I’m screaming I’m never gonna be okay.

Ryan: Am I really this hopeless?

Leighton: Isn’t that what you’re going for?

No. I just don’t know how to be anything else.