“So Cam is being crazy defensive, telling me there’s no way I can change the plan, and if I do everything is ruined,” I say, refilling a display of blushes while the store is slow. “But I don’t know. It feels . . . weird, now. It feels wrong, like I’m fucking something good up. And for what?”
“She’s projecting,” Kat says, a soft sigh in her voice, the kind a disappointed mother makes. “Jason fucked her up, and since then, she’s been unable to get over it. Every guy is a piece of shit to her.” I nod, knowing she’s right. “And even when they aren’t, she finds a reason that he must be shit. She self-sabotages.”
“Sometimes I wonder if she wants us to be miserable with her,” I say quietly, and I feel guilty saying the words I’ve thought for some time out loud. But Kat nods, agreeing.
“I’ve been trying to get her to go to therapy. She needs to talk to someone about it. A professional.” I keep organizing, distracting myself from the guilt of knowing we probably should have stepped in earlier. “But honestly, Abbie? I think you should.” Her smile is tight and sad. “Confess, I mean.” I stop organizing, giving my friend my full attention.
Part of me was hoping Kat would be on Cami’s side, that she’d tell me that my failed attempt at confessing was good enough, that I should wait until the new year like Damien and I agreed.
“What if he hates me?” I say in a soft voice, my true fears coming out. “I don’t even care about Richard anymore. I’m over it. We did enough shit, and it was fun and felt good, but I think . . . I think this is too far.”
“If he’s going to hate you, he’s going to hate you. But honestly, he seems like the type to understand.”
“No one is understanding of being used, Katrina. Trust me.” Her eyes have that soft motherly look to them. “Richard used me for years, and as soon as I realized, I literally put a plan together to get revenge. We glitter bombed his car, changed his food orders, told his tailor to bring in his clothes, and posted his phone number all around New York City. Not to mention I’m sleeping with his boss. I had absolutely no interest in “understanding” where he was coming from, Kat. At all.”
“But you lived that for four years. You planned your entire life around the lies he told you.” I scrunch up my nose, knowing she’s not wrong. “Damien has not dealt with that. In fact, from the start, he told you this was for fun, right?”
I nod.
“But it’s . . . not anymore. I don’t think so, at least. It doesn’t feel . . . fun.”
“It’s not fun anymore?” she asks, an eyebrow raised.
“Oh, it’s fun,” I say with a devious smile, thinking of our celebratory night last night, and Kat laughs. “I just mean it’s not just fun. You know?” I hear my phone vibrate on the cash wrap counter and tip my chin toward it. “Can you check that? I want to make sure the plans haven’t changed,” I say, grabbing a few boxes to move the display around. Already knowing my password (because best friends always do), she grabs my phone and then . . . silence.
I look up, attempting to see her over the boxes I’m artfully stacking but failing miserably.
“Kat?” She doesn’t reply.
Now, Cam? She’s my drama queen. She’s my man-hater. She’s the one I can count on to overreact about literally anything.
Kat? She’s sugar and sweetness, not an ounce of spice. She’s hopelessly romantic and gooey-eyed.
So when I finally see her, holding my phone and with wide, glazed eyes, I start to panic.
“Kat?” I say, putting down the boxes and walking over to where she stands, staring at my phone.
Shit. Something terrible has happened.
“He calls you naranja?” she asks, her voice low and . . . concerned, and I stare at her, confused.
“What?”
“Naranja. He calls you that?”
“What are you talking about?” I grab my phone from her hands, the grip loose, and look at the message from Damien.
Damien: I’ll be at your place at four. Is that good, naranja?
“Oh. Yeah. We had this entire conversation about how I’m not a fall, and that orange is so not my color, but he still calls me it. I think he’s just making fun of me because, ya know, pink,” I say, moving a hand down my outfit with a pink top, the requisite black pants, and a pair of pink heels. I look back at my best friend, and I can nearly see the Powerpuff Girls’ hearts in her eyes.
Shit.
“He’s Latino.”
“Yes,” I say, confused.
“Media naranja.” I blink at her. “It means half an orange.” I continue to blink at her then look back at my phone, assuming my friend has officially lost her mind.
“Got it.” I tap out a reply to Damien, confirming that time is good for me while side-eyeing Kat.
“It’s a saying,” she says, continuing. I stop and look at her, a strange feeling creeping over my skin like little needles of awareness.
“Why do I feel like whatever you’re about to say is going to fuck with my head.”
“There’s a lot of reasons why it’s used. Some people think it’s because of Ancient Greek translations; others say it’s because no two oranges are identical.” I keep staring at her, waiting for her to get to the point. “But basically, in Spanish it means my other half. Or my better half. But most frequently, it’s used in place of something like soulmate.”
The world stops spinning.
The low Christmas music playing over the loudspeaker quiets.
The hustle and bustle of last-minute shoppers disappears.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“He calls you naranja. It’s not because he thinks it’s funny that you like pink and hate the color orange, Abbie.” More blinking. “He’s calling you his soulmate when he says it.”
“Wha?” I ask, and a small, horrified chuckle leaves my lips. “No. God, no. You must be confused.” She shakes her head slowly, almost sad.
“It’s a saying. There’s no real confusing it, Abs.”
“He said it after our first night together, Kat,” I say, panic moving through my system.
Not because I don’t like Damien.
I really freaking like this man.
I like this man absolutely more than anyone should like a man who they were never supposed to be with longer than six weeks.
I like this man in a way that I can see a future with him. A future I’m not allowed to see. A future that is impossible, given the way this relationship started.
I’m panicking because if this is true—if all this time it’s been more—I’ve lost all high ground. I’ve lost any hope of being able to play this off in my mind as anything other than a really shitty thing to do to another human.
When it was fun, it was easy to convince myself it wasn’t a big deal.
When words like soulmate are being thrown around, feelings get hurt.
And I don’t want to be that person.
And though I want to sit down and grill Kat about every single tiny translation of the stupid word, I don’t because the slow spell ends, and I spend the rest of my shift running around the store, helping customers, and never meeting up with Kat again.
But when I leave for the day, headed home to get ready, all I can think is how I need to tell Damien.
