***

With a Tupperware container of cupcakes I took from the bakery, I pull up outside Harley’s house. Huffing out a sigh, I sit in the car for a moment, glaring at his isolated home in the boondocks, almost completely hidden by the tall pine trees overcrowding the sprawling front yard. I’m not in the mood for this today. Closing my eyes a moment, I take a few fortifying breaths in through my nose, cleansing myself before hopping out of the car. I smooth down the front of my shirt, tuck the container of cakes under my arm, and proceed up the driveway, hearing the sound of people having far too good a time coming from around the back of the house.

The moment I step through the side gate, I really wish I’d just stayed at home. My eyes roam the expansive yard, zeroing in on Anna’s bevy of beautiful bridesmaids huddled together on lawn chairs, cackling in sync to something that cannot possibly be that funny. They remind me of those mean girls at every single high school in America. All beautiful. All blonde. All bitches. Of course, I have no grounds on which to base my assumption. I don’t know if they’re mean or not. I just dislike them because they’re with Anna, and I don’t like her because she’s with Nash. Petty? Absolutely.

Turning, I cross the yard, walking up the steps of the deck to where Seth and Kevin, Nash and Harley’s friends from high school, are sitting, drinking beers with a few guys I’ve never seen before.

“What’d you bring, Murph?” Kevin asks, eyeing my Tupperware container.

“Salted caramel cupcakes,” I say, placing the container on the patio table while I scan the backyard for a glimpse of Nash.

“You made ’em?” Seth asks, overly excited.

“No.” I shake my head. “Your sister made them yesterday. Something about a new recipe she found on Pinterest, or whatever. I just let her go for it so she wouldn’t annoy me while I was doing the books.”

Seth laughs at the mention of his little sister, Sarah, the apple of his eye.

“Where’s Nash?”

“Inside.”

Taking a deep breath, I continue inside, stepping into the kitchen, but I stop suddenly, finding Nash and Anna together—really together—kissing as if they’ve not seen each other in forever, and it takes everything I have not to outwardly gag. I clear my throat, looking down to the floor.

“Oh, hey, Murph.” Nash chuckles. “You finally made it!”

I look up to see him sheepishly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and I feel my cheeks blush. “Yeah.”

“You look cute, Murph,” Anna coos, looking me up and down, and inwardly I cringe. Cute? I’m literally wearing jean shorts, a Falcons’ T-shirt, an old flannel shirt over the top, no makeup whatsoever, and a pair of scuffed Converse. Far from cute. I don’t know what she’s playing at. The moment I look at her, finding her just as beautiful as the night before—maybe even more so—I hate her. But then, my eyes trail downward, taking in the plain white T-shirt she’s wearing, the one emblazoned with Future Mrs. Harris across the front in big bold letters. I suddenly have this overwhelming feeling that she secretly has it in for me. It’s as if she’s taunting me. I don’t just hate her, I actually despise her.