Are You Shitting Me?

The Uber ride was so uninspiring. Emily and Jonas were doing their couply thing in the backseat—inside jokes, not so casual touching, that gross, adorable shit that made Chloe simultaneously happy for her best friend and painfully aware she was firmly situated in the third wheel position.

“—and then with zero prompting, he goes, ‘Yeah, I for sure thought I was having a stroke,’” Emily was saying, dissolving into open-mouthed laughter.

“I, in fact, was not having an actual stroke…it was just that funny,” Jonas added, grinning widely.

Chloe rolled her eyes. “You two are so disgustingly cute. I think I might vomit.”

They pulled up to Emily’s building and tumbled out, all warmed up from the tequila shots they’d knocked back earlier—blissful and content. Emily stretched, looking like someone who’d finally figured out how to be happy.

“God, that was exactly what I needed,” Emily sighed, linking arms with Jonas. “Chloe, I love it when you suggest hanging out at Essex. I get to traumatize you both with my dancing prowess.”

“I know, babe,” Chloe said, smiling. “I’ll never miss an opportunity to watch you twerk with so much back and assist in picking you up when you drop it low.”

Emily turned with that post-date afterglow. “Text me when you get home. And if you get murdered, I will use your browser history in your eulogy.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Chloe gasped.

“I would,” Emily replied, kissing Chloe on the cheek.

Emily and Jonas disappeared into the building, wrapped up in each other. Chloe stood on the sidewalk and ordered another Uber.

“Here I am, world, Chloe Carter: Best Friend, Chaos Redistributor, Literary Agent, Perpetual Third Wheel. How is this my life?”

***

Back home, Chloe kicked off her heels and flopped onto her plush pink sofa, dropping her phone beside her. Her apartment was less chaotic than normal. Perfect almost. The vibe was more ‘I have my shit together’, less ‘girl, what the hell are you doing with your life.’

She sat there staring up at the ceiling.

“Supporting role of the year,” she said aloud to no one.

She hadn’t even realized she’d fallen asleep, then—

She was sitting at a white desk in what looked like the world’s most aggressive Literary Agency.

It had an inspired view of the city, glass everything, and trophies on the desk: “Best Supporting Friend,” “Most Reliable Wing Woman,” “Occasional Third Wheel.”

“Well. This is fucked.”

Three versions of herself appeared in front of the desk.

This was about to get dark.

Suit Chloe had perfect hair and a tablet that probably cost more than her current rent.

Unfiltered Chloe wore ripped jeans and was filing her freshly manicured nails with something sharp and potentially dangerous.

Anxious Chloe stress-ate imaginary snacks by the window.

“We have a serious problem,” Suit Chloe announced with corporate flair.

“Girl, what’s new?” Unfiltered, Chloe said.

Suddenly, there were cameras everywhere. Reporters with familiar faces—Emily with a notepad, Harper with a microphone, her dad in the back looking angry about—everything.

“Ms. Carter!” Emily-reporter called. “How do you respond to the allegations that you’ve been ‘totally fine’ for fifteen years straight?”

“Is it true you cried in Target and blamed it on your allergies?” Harper-reporter added.

Suit Chloe gestured frantically for “no comment,” but Chloe was already talking.

“You want a statement, freakishly scary Harper-reporter? FINE.”

Emily-reporter looked stunned.

“Harper—you only call when Emily’s having a meltdown, and you need me to do damage control. I’M NOT CUSTOMER SERVICE.”

“Dad—turns out calling me a ‘smart-mouthed bitch’ just made me more resilient fuck you very much.”

Unfiltered Chloe was cheering. Anxious Chloe fainted. Suit Chloe was updating her résumé.

“I’m tired of being everyone’s crisis manager,” Chloe announced. “I want my own damn crisis for once.”

There was chaos. More questions. Someone even threw flowers—

***

Chloe’s eyes opened, roused awake by her phone buzzing beside her.

Emily: Made it upstairs without tripping. Yay for small miracles. You didn’t text me. I’m assuming you haven’t been murdered. Please confirm.”

Chloe stared at the text.

Then started typing: Actually, no—

She immediately deleted it.

Chloe: I’m good, babe. Glad there were no tripping incidents. Sleep tight. Talk to you tomorrow.

Chloe lay in the dark, wondering when she’d become everyone’s emotional IT department and why her subconscious thought the solution was PR warfare.

She closed her eyes and tried to forget the taste of saying exactly what she knew she needed to say—then her phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number: Hey, this might be weird, but I think you left your credit card at the bar tonight. Someone turned it in after you and your friends left. Let me know when you can come by and pick it up. Andrew.

Chloe stared at the screen. Andrew? Who the fuck is Andrew? And how does this random person have her number?

Chloe: Sorry, who is this?

Andrew: We talked at Essex a few weeks ago. You gave me your number. Brown hair, hazel eyes, Bartender? You told me you had commitment issues, and I was sexy as hell.

Essex. Right. The weekend after Emily’s book Love, Literally, had made the bestseller list. Emily was having a particularly exuberant dance breakthrough, and Chloe was…what? Handing out her number to complete strangers.

Chloe: Oh. That night’s kind of in my rearview. Not gonna lie…it’s a complete blur.

Andrew: Ouch! But fair. Guess I didn’t make as good of an impression as I thought. I thought my effortless charm was working that night. But you did seem pretty focused on celebrating with your friend. Look, I get off in a bit, I could come by and drop off your card if that’s cool.

Chloe: I mean boundaries! I’m not giving my address to some random guy I don’t remember meeting. That’s how people end up on Dateline or worse, Snapped.

Andrew: LOL! Smart. Coffee shop work? I live downtown. Not too far from Essex.

Chloe: Which coffee shop?

Andrew: Whichever one you’re comfortable with. I’m not trying to be weird about it.

Chloe: This whole conversation is weird.

She paused briefly before responding again. He had a point—most serial killers probably wouldn’t offer to meet at a location of her choosing—would they? And she absolutely needed her credit card. It was an essential life item.

Chloe: Victrola on Capitol Hill. Tomorrow, 2 pm.

Andrew: See you then. And for the record, you made an impression even if I didn’t.

She read that last text again. What the hell had drunk Chloe been up to that night?

Chloe: Cool. Try not to murder me.

Andrew: I wouldn’t dream of it.

She set the phone down and rubbed her eyes. When had she stopped noticing?

Maybe when she’d become so busy being in the audience of someone else’s love story.

Maybe when she’d stopped paying attention to herself somewhere along the way.

Maybe it was time for a love story of her own—or at least a proverbial roll in the hay.

“Fuck it,” Chloe muttered. “I’m Chloe ‘Fucking’ Carter. I’m The Devil Wears Prada meets Bridget Jones's Diary, and so help me God, if Emily Strauss gets a slow burn, I get a morally gray, slightly unhinged, spicy romance. Balance.”