I drag my eyes back up to her face. Man, her pissed-off face scares me, maybe because she’s usually such a soft, warm person. She’s never been sassy with me like Ruby always is. Jesus, I miss her.

Amalie steps in close, eyes alight with a fire I’ve never seen before. “Ruby told me all about the message you left her and the one Brittany left for you. What kind of person are you, trying to pay her off. It’s disgusting.”

“Pay her off? For what?”

“For the sex.” She says it like I’m the stupidest person on the face of the earth. Because clearly I am.

“Whoa, whoa. Hold on here. Why the hell would she think I was paying her off?”

“Because you left her five thousand dollars and a message about how your arrangement changed, you asshole. And all the while you’re setting up dates with whoreface Brittany. Ruby doesn’t just sleep with anyone, you know. She really liked you and then you had to go and do this. And you just up and disappear for a week. What kind of jerkoff are you?”

Oh shit. Now this is all starting to make sense. “Okay, first things first, I wasn’t trying to pay Ruby for sex. I had no idea how long I was going to be gone and I needed to leave money because I didn’t have time to get supplies for Francesca and Tiny. Secondly, I’ve known Brittany since I was a kid and she’s here because my mother wants me to date her, not because I do. Why wouldn’t Ruby call me before she went and moved all her stuff out? And she’s not working at the club anymore. Please tell me she didn’t go back to Rhode Island.” I hadn’t even considered that possibility until now. It amps up the panic.

“She moved out because she’s protecting her heart.” She clamps her mouth shut. “I don’t even know why I’m talking to you. I can’t trust a damn thing you say.”

Amalie tries to brush past me, but I grab her arm. “I just need her number. I just need to call her to explain. Or you could tell me where she is.”

“Explain what exactly? That you were screwing her and who knows who else while she was living in your place? You didn’t even try to contact her once while you were gone this time. What the hell is she supposed to think?”

“I’m not screwing anyone else and I don’t have any intention of doing so either. I lost my phone on the plane and I didn’t have my iCloud backed up so I couldn’t contact her. And she’s either not responding to or not getting the messages I sent her on social media. I just want to talk to her, Amalie. I didn’t want her to leave. I want her. I want to be with her. I fucking miss her.”

Amalie eyes go wide and maybe a little shocked at my language. “Oh, well, that explains the lack of messages, but this whole Brittany thing—”

“I’m not an asshole, Amalie. I’ve never had any intention of dating Brittany. I think she might actually be delusional. Just tell me where Ruby is, please, so I can try to fix this.”

Amalie regards me for a few long moments before she retrieves her phone from her handbag. “She’s staying at my place. She had a successful audition last week. It’s a really great role. She’s moving into her own apartment next week.”

“She found her own place already?”

“It was a fluke really. A sublet.”

My phone pings in my pocket. I pull it out and add the contact to my short, but growing list. “Can I get directions to your apartment?” My phone pings again.

“I can do better than that.” She roots around in her clutch and pulls out a key. “Don’t make me regret giving you this. Now go unbreak my best friend’s heart, please.”

Chapter 22: Ice Cream Tastes Like Heartbreak

RUBY

I’m on my second pint of Ben and Jerry’s. The first one was cookie dough, this one is straight vanilla. Amie’s having dinner at Bancroft’s parent’s house tonight and he’s supposed to be there if he’s back from his trip. She offered to fake being sick and stay here with me in a show of solidarity, but I wanted her to report back. I also want to know if that whoreface Brittany is there with him. I also may have asked her to put a hefty dose of laxative in her food if she is. Amie refused the last part. I still slipped it in her purse in case she changed her mind.

At seven I get my first message from Amie:

Whoreface is here. Dressed like a whore. Bancroft is not.

Forty-five minutes later I get another one:

Bancroft arrived. Whoreface is whoring all over him. I found the laxatives in my purse. I might slip them into his coffee.

The ice cream suddenly isn’t sitting well. I wait to hear back from her again, but after half an hour I cave and send her one:

Is she his date?

It takes a few minutes for her to reply.

I think so. ☹

I can’t believe less than a week ago we were having sex on every damn surface in his condo. I should’ve stuck to my seven-date rule. Living at his place ruined everything.

My phone pings again. It’s Amie again.

We were wrong.

When I send one back asking for clarification and get nothing in response I frantically type fifty new one-word messages, hoping the constant string of texts will prompt her to reply in order to shut me up. She replies:

About Bancroft. You’ll understand soon.

As if that’s helpful. It’s just as cryptic. The rest of my messages go unanswered. I think I’m on the verge of a panic attack when there’s a knock on the door, followed by the sound of the key turning in the lock. It’s not even ten. I’m surprised dinner is over already. Rich-people dinner parties usually last until midnight, with the business component of the evening taking place after food and drink has been consumed. Which seems rather backward to me. Maybe Amie left early to be with me. Maybe she has news. My stomach flips and I reclaim my ice cream in preparation for food solace.

Except it’s not Amie who walks through the door of the apartment. It’s Bancroft.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I bark.

Bancroft looks me over. I resist the urge to rush to the bathroom and make myself more presentable. I’m pretty sure I look awful. My hair is pulled into a haphazard ponytail and I’m wearing my comfy pajamas. And no bra.

He crosses the room, looking intense. And hot. Damn him.

“We need to talk.”

I clutch the couch cushion so I don’t launch an attack. “There’s nothing to talk about.”