Bea’s knuckles turn white. “My sister is on such thin fucking ice.”

Juliet’s text to the group reads: Bowling at The Alley this Friday—9 P.M. sharp! I have 2 lanes reserved. Bring money for shoes & lots of competitive spirit .

The replies pour in. Everyone is magically available, responding immediately.

“Well.” I pocket my phone. “They certainly aren’t making it hard to want to get revenge, are they?”

“Definitely not.” Sighing, Bea rubs her eyes. “Before we got interrupted, I interrupted you. I’m all turned around. What were you saying?”

“Just that—” It takes a bit of courage, a slow, deep breath before the words cooperate. “Even though you and I are pretending, that’s for everyone else. You can be honest with me. Frankly, it’s easier if you are.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as someone who wants Bea Wilmot levels of honesty.”

“I realize I’m not the warm, fuzzy type. I come across as harsh when I don’t mean to. I know that we got off on the wrong foot, and I seem constitutionally incapable of not offending you, but I’m not trying to, I promise.”

She bites her lip and stares at the ground. “I just feel like you’re judging me.”

“I feel the same way about you.”

“I’m not.” Her eyes meet mine. Bea takes a step forward, then stops herself. “I’m really not. Live your best, clean-eating, wrinkle-free life. I don’t knock it. Just don’t look down on me for being different.”

“I don’t. Maybe that’s hard to tell because I’m a bit uptight, but—”

She snorts, then schools her expression. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“But if we’re going to do this, I want you to be comfortable with me. You can tell me you have your period and buy pads in front of me. You don’t have to hide canned ravioli or grocery store cupcakes or anything else, Bea. And I promise I will do better at making sure you don’t regret your honesty.”

Silence stretches between us. “Okay,” she says finally. “That’s . . .” Sniffling, she dabs her nose. “That’s cool.”

Oh God. I made her cry.

The physician in me takes over, reasoning that if her purchases are timely, her hormonal pattern makes this the part of the month she’s most likely to cry about anything. It’s the time when comforting things—a cozy couch, a heating pad, a warm meal she doesn’t have to make—are most welcome.

“Why don’t . . .” The words die in my throat.

“Hmm?” She glances up at me, eyes watery, her nose red with the threat of crying.

“Why don’t you . . . come over for dinner?”

· THIRTEEN ·

Bea

I’m starting to worry that I hit my head when I got out of bed this morning. Maybe I haven’t woken up and the whole day has been one big trippy dream.