“When is Richard picking you up?” I ask.

Blair peeks at her watch. “Should be here in less than an hour. Gosh, I have to hurry.” She gives another brush to her lashes with the mascara wand. “Could you please plug in the flat iron for me?”

“Sure,” I snap.

I catch her throwing me a side stare in the mirror while I comply with her request.

“Are you sure you’re not mad I didn’t invite you to the party?”

“Blair, I’m not mad.”

I’m so mad I want to strangle her.

“It’s just that it’s all couples,” she repeats for the hundredth time. “You would’ve felt awkward, I’m sure. What with being the only person with no one to kiss at midnight?”

True, I would’ve hated it. And I also would’ve rather cut off my right arm than go to an all-couples New Year’s party. But that’s not the point. As my best friend, she should’ve begged me to go with her, and insisted that I go at least a few times after my every stubborn “no.”

“Really, it’s no trouble,” I lie. “You know I hate couples’ dinners.”

“Well.” Blair coats her lips in a bold shade of burgundy, smacks them together, and stares in the mirror, satisfied. “It’s not going to be exactly a boring dinner. Richard’s friend is famous for throwing the best parties.”

Oh, I gasp inside my head, what a bitch!

I get that her life is perfect, and she has the perfect boyfriend, and that they’re going to the best New Year’s party in the city. But does she really have to rub it in my face? Tonight, I don’t recognize my best friend. Not as the kind and loving person who has been super supportive since we came back to New York. No idea what happened to turn on her mean girl switch, but it’d better turn back off quickly if she wants us to still be friends next year.

Pretending I’m busy with the flat iron cord, I turn away from her to hide my seething look of outrage.

“Cool party or not, it’s still going to be a cheesy PDA shit show,” I say, harsher than I meant.

“Right,” Blair agrees. “I’d so rather spend the night in watching TV than having to get all dressed up and go out in the cold for a whole night of partying.”

As she says this, she pulls on the expensive new dress Richard brought her from London and admires how it perfectly hugs her figure in the mirror. She doesn’t look like someone who’d rather spend the night in and order takeout pizza for dinner.

She twirls around once, and then turns toward me. “Mind getting the zipper?”

“Not at all.” I pull the back of her dress together and slash the zipper up in one rough movement.

“Hey,” Blair protests. “Careful there, I don’t want to rip the dress off.” Then she winks at me through the mirror. “Not unless it’s Richard doing it later tonight.”