BooksBarbecue
Back When We Were Friends
Chapters (52)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. Dedication
  4. About the Author
  5. 31
  6. 14
  7. 31
  8. 14
  9. 31
  10. 14
  11. 31
  12. 14
  13. 31
  14. 15
  15. 31
  16. 16
  17. 32
  18. 16
  19. 32
  20. 17
  21. 32
  22. 17
  23. 32
  24. 17
  25. 32
  26. 17
  27. 32
  28. 18
  29. 32
  30. 18
  31. 32
  32. 18
  33. 32
  34. 18
  35. 32
  36. 18
  37. 32
  38. 18
  39. 32
  40. 18
  41. 32
  42. 18
  43. 32
  44. 18
  45. 32
  46. 32
  47. 33
  48. 33
  49. 33
  50. Acknowledgments
  51. Discussion Questions
  52. Booklist

A flash in his eyes, or was I imagining it. “Did you see who it was?”

“Yes,” I deadpanned. “I went through your phone. Read all the messages. I can’t believe you’re fucking cheating on me with five other women. Aren’t you exhausted?”

The joke was a test. I scrutinized his face for a reaction and Ben passed. Maybe he passed? Because he grinned, not flinching at all. “I don’t use them all for sex,” he said. “Some of them fill the emotional void you leave in me.” He twisted over and picked it up. I wanted to hold a magnifying glass to his face as he read Jessica’s messages. I could make nothing out though. He didn’t reply, just punched the message away, and returned, grinning, to me.

“Anything important?”

“Nah.” He shrugged and moved to kiss my neck again. I could think of no way of stopping the inevitable sex—not without making it clear how much I was freaking out. So I went on autopilot, faking moans and sighs, while, on the inside, I dived headfirst into how bad it’d been when this last happened.

18

november 2004

It just felt like an important night. I couldn’t place it, but, in my bones somewhere, there was a deep tingling. And, by some grace of the universe, I happened to look effortlessly good for the occasion.

“I don’t understand how you look so hot,” Heather said, when she’d walked into my uni room wearing a ballerina tutu. “You look about twelve years old, and you also look superhot.”

It was particularly impressive considering I was dressed as Avril Lavigne. I’d straightened my hair so it fell like two rulers either side of my face, and wore a stripy tie as a necklace over a Motörhead T-shirt, twinned with the knee-high socks I wore under my mini-kilt. I also had on enough eyeliner I could probably eat it and survive for three days if I ended up stranded in a desert.

“I don’t understand it either! But I’m not going to complain.”

It couldn’t be more perfect as I was spending the evening at Danny’s side. As if on cue, he thrust my uni door open, playing air guitar, and yelling the lyrics to “Sk8er Boi” at the top of his lungs, eyes closed as he started jumping around my room. He was an equally cute sexy hybrid. He’d gelled his hair into spikes, decorated his arms in flannel wristbands, and wore a dog collar necklace, giant baggy jeans, and a Blink 182 T-shirt. He leaped onto my single bed and took a giant sideways jump off, before landing at our feet, finally taking us in.

“Holy fuck, Fern, you look hot,” he said, sounding genuinely surprised.