Anne Malcom

“I do want to be at some stupid fucking shoot,” I countered, not addressing the hot coals part since he was totally right. “I want to be anywhere where my best friend—who I haven’t seen in months—is. Plus, a hot photographer is a bonus.”

Wyatt’s jaw ticked in unfamiliar anger. “You’re not fuckin’ a photographer.”

“Since when do you get a say in who I do or don’t fuck

No, I know that we both were dealing with one of the most fucked-up things in this world so we decided to look for something else to fuck up. And that’s what a conversation about us is...a fuck up,” I lied.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” he hissed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I do know that I’m not falling in love with you,” I said. “Love turns people into fools.”

“Babe, we’re all somebody’s fool.”

Lexie: Are you back in the country yet? I was going to send out a search party. And by me, I mean Wyatt. You were meant to be in Italy for three days. Not three weeks. You missed Sam’s birthday. He says you owe him a Ferrari.

I laughed out loud at the Ferrari comment. The person next to me in the ice cream aisle gave me a judgmental look. Apparently outward happiness in L.A. was so over.

“Dude, you’re buying ice cream at two in the morning just the same as me,” I said, glancing down at his basket. “Just because you’re wearing three hundred-dollar sneakers it doesn’t make you superior to me. We’re both pathetic. Deal with it.”