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

“And who’s this?” he asked, pointing to Jessica, who had sat herself up, pulled her hair to one shoulder, leaned herself over so her top was lower.

“This is my friend from home, Jessica.” I reluctantly introduced them.

“Jessica, nice to meet you.”

“You too.” She gave him her grin back.

Danny pulled up a chair and turned right into us. “So, OK, Jessica, I want to know everything about my English buddy over here,” he said, leaning in and whacking me on the back. “What was Fern like in school? What was her worst fashion disaster? Did you guys ever make out at a girly sleepover?”

“Danny!” I shrieked—half delighted he was taking such an interest in me. Maybe he was in love with me and wanted to get my best friend onside? For a second, I thought everything might come together. Maybe I could talk to him later that night? Tell him how I felt? But then I saw Jessica do the grin again and look Danny right in the eye. The way she’d done, all those years ago, in McDonald’s, sipping her milkshake, flirting with Matt from school...

“I mean,” she said, in a sexy but innocent voice, “all girls do at sleepovers is wear tiny pajamas, have pillow fights, and practice kissing on each other.”

Danny raised both eyebrows. “Fern, your friend from home is great,” he told me. “Bring her every weekend.”

Their eyes locked once more.

No.

This couldn’t be happening. Not again.

32

now.

I stood up to face Jessica. The hatred zinging through me, souring my tongue. Over fifteen years of resentment and jealousy, passes and forgiveness dissolved in my stomach, and I said what I’d always wanted to say, needed to say, almost glad I could finally say it.

“You fucking slut.”

“Fern! Please. Just listen. I know what it looks like.” She held up her arms, trying to step toward me.

“NO!” I screamed. The pain coming out. Humiliation coming out. Shame coming out, but only making me want to double down and make it worse. “I hate you! You’re a pathetic fucking whore and I hate you. Every woman who has ever known you fucking hates you because of what you are.” Once it was out, I felt as if I’d lost a stone, I’d said it all. I’d finally told her what I thought.

She stopped, her mouth dropping open. She held her stomach as if I’d shot her.

“Is that seriously what you think of me?” She dared to look upset, when she was the one who had taken and taken, the one almost kissing my boyfriend on my bed while they thought I was at work.