Page 56 of Not a Friend (Crescent Light #1)

Six Months Ago, April

I read the words on the page, but all I saw was your face.

“ D o you think you could proofread my article before I send it over to Julienne? She’s going to butcher it to smithereens either way,” Wren deadpanned. “But, you know.”

“You mean to tell me you haven’t already proofed it a thousand times?

” I switched hands to hold my cell phone between my ear and shoulder as I opened the door to my apartment building.

After landing a co-writing credit on a blog piece that went viral a few months back, Wren was finally getting her breakthrough piece put to press.

I couldn’t have been more excited for her.

“I mean, yeah, of course I have. But I need a fresh set of gorgeous hazel eyes to look at it.”

“Those can be expensive, you know. I heard the market for new eyeballs is kind of tight this time of year.” I turned left down the narrow hall to the mail room.

“Har har har. I’ll send it over to you now. Oh! Did you get the new issue today? ”

I swung open my mailbox and grabbed the small pile inside, rolling my eyes when I saw this month’s new issue of The Mountain folded hotdog style around the rest of my mail.

It was a good thing I had a fresh, crisp copy I bought from the bodega down the street nestled—nice and protected—in the bag slung over my shoulder.

Apparently, the words Do Not Bend doesn’t matter to the postal service.

“Yep.” I couldn’t help but smile as I slid the rubber band off my stack of mail and unfolded the magazine. “Looking at it right now.”

On the front cover of The Mountain , in the bottom right corner, under the chin of a close-up shot of the newest teen actress turned all-grown-up pop star, was the title of my newest piece.

A sequel—a sister—to my first print piece. The piece I poured months of my life into a year and a half prior. I flipped open the magazine, desperately balancing my phone, my bag, and my mail, and beheld my newest article.

Three (More) Artists You Should Know: Another Look Into New England’s Underground Music Scene By Olive McLaren

“It’s so pretty. Your name looks great on the cover, babe.”

“Thanks, Wren. Your name will look even better.”

“Eh, I’ll get there eventually. I gotta go. My article should be sitting in your inbox, okay? Let me know what you think.”

I folded the pile back over and locked the mailbox. “Will do. Love you!”

“Love you, too.”

The smell of garlic and onion and savory, wonderful things hit me like a wall as I ascended the stairs to my apartment door .

“Hello?” I said as I fished my key out of the lock.

“In here!” Kieran called from the kitchen. I rounded the corner to see him pouring a modest dose of chianti into a pot of tomato sauce. I’d given him a spare key a few months back. It felt like the natural next step in our relationship. “I let myself in. Hope that’s okay.”

I laughed, circling the island to peer over his shoulder at the enormous pot of spaghetti sauce. “It is when it smells this amazing. What are you making?”

“Zucchini spaghetti.”

I gave him a tight, sarcastically teasing smile. “ Yum, my favorite.”

“You will like the zucchini someday, I promise. It’ll grow on you. Plus, it’s way healthier than regular noodles.” He put the wine bottle down on the counter and leaned in to kiss me, careful not to let his tomato-splattered shirt touch my white top.

“Wanna see the new issue?” I practically bounced with excitement.

“Uh, in a minute, yes. I need to keep an eye on this.”

I deflated an inch and pulled my bag off my shoulder, shrugging out of my jacket and fingering through the rest of the mail.

“You’re on the cover, right?” he asked.

“ I’m not on the cover, but my title is.”

“Same difference.”

I shook my head to myself as my phone began to ring. An incoming FaceTime from Gemma.

“ Ugh ,” Kieran groaned. He knew Gemma’s ringtone by heart by now. “Can you tell her we’re about to eat dinner?”

I giggled. “It’ll probably be quick.”

“So? Can she not make a decision without calling you?”

Laughing again, I swiped to answer the FaceTime .

“I’m reading your article as we speak,” Gemma said by way of greeting. “I’m like a proud parent.”

“I just picked up my fresh copy. Remind me to write a strongly worded letter to the postal service.”

“Does that mean you’ve already checked your mail today?”

“Looking through it now, why?” Propping my phone against the bottle of chianti, I flipped faster through the junk mail. I paused when a fancy-looking, champagne-colored envelope caught my eye. It was addressed to Ms. Olive McLaren and Guest, with the return address being Gemma’s mom’s house.

I gasped . This must be it.

Gemma squealed as I tore open the envelope and pulled the pristine, embellished cardstock from inside. The invitation was complete with useless scented tissue to keep the papers from sticking, and a stamped return envelope.

“They look even better in person! The pictures you sent me don’t do them justice.”

“Right? They turned out so good! Oh shoot, gotta go. Mom’s calling me.”

“Bye!” I glanced at Kieran’s back once the call disconnected. “See? Quick.”

“Hmm.”

I roved over the invitation, giddy with excitement for my friend at first, then excited to see all our friends. Then, like an unwelcome guest, someone else’s face popped into my mind.

Will he be there?

I swallowed and turned back to Kieran, who was busy at work stirring the bubbling sauce. “You don’t happen to have anything going on the weekend of October nineteenth, do you? ”

He snorted. “Considering that’s six months from now, I have no idea. Why?”

Together with their families,

Gemma Allison Clark & William Grant Christensen

request the pleasure of your company to celebrate their joyous union.