Presley was a wine snob and had long ago proclaimed that a lighter one like rosé paired best with my beloved red candy ropes.

“Or vodka,” I muttered, knowing full well she didn’t stock it.

A cork popped off, glasses clinked, and soon enough, she was carrying two full glasses into the room. She set mine on the coffee table and snuggled into the opposite corner from me.

“Bad week?” she said, then took a swallow.

I held out my jar, and she dutifully took a rope. What were friends for if not sharing in one’s vices, or at least indulging one in them?

“Angelica announced she’s terminally ill,” I told her, because we didn’t have time to beat around the bush here. I had a major problem I needed to solve. Not that I wasn’t sympathetic to Angelica’s much-bigger-than-my problem, but I couldn’t solve hers.

The jury was still out on whether I could solve mine.

I filled Presley in on the main points, including the ridiculous reason my boss was leaning toward Gloria over me to leave in charge of the company.

Presley squinted at me like that was the dumbest thing she’d heard. “She’s off her rocker. Has she already started treatment? Maybe it affected her brain?”

I shook my head. “She starts next week, so this is all her.”

“I know a person’s perspective can do a one-eighty if they’re faced with life-or-death news, but that seems like an altogether different person. So what are you going to do about it?”

“Already did it,” I said, chewing another bite.

“Of course you did.” Presley raised her brows and looked as if she was bracing herself.

“I might have told her I’m in a serious relationship.”

Presley took that in, nodded slowly, as if thinking that wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. So I continued.

“To Holden.”

Presley’s mouth opened wide, eyes went huge, then she pressed her lips together as if to stifle a grin.

“I know,” I said, my eyes fluttering closed. When I opened them, I went for the wine.

Before she could ask me when I’d gone so stupid, I spit out the rest of the story—about breaking the news to Holden, about the party, about his big, spontaneous “upgrade” in the lie.

Presley popped up off the couch, pacing to the other side of the living room, taking a drink of wine, then pivoting to face me.

“I’ve only been gone for five days, Chloe,” she exclaimed. There really wasn’t a better word than exclaimed, and I couldn’t blame her. My life had become exclaimable. An exclamation?

Shit show would suffice just fine.

Her gaze veered to my bare ring finger, and I told her how Holden had handled that part of the tale before she could ask.