Page 3 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter two

“ T o Poppy! New York’s next household name!” LuAnne has to shout to be heard over the hockey game blaring through the TV mounted right above us.

“Okay, ‘household name’ is a bit of an exaggeration,” I correct as I raise my glass and chug the shot. The cheap raspberry vodka burns all the way down.

“It’s not!” LuAnne protests, honey-brown eyes shining through the bar’s dim lighting and haze of cigarette smoke.

“Every New Yorker knows what the Ars Astrum is. My best friend is going to be a star, and I’m going to ride your coattails forever.

You’re not allowed to forget me when you’re jet-setting off to Paris to exhibit your art to a bunch of rich people.

” She says it with the worst French accent I’ve ever heard, and even Joe lightly chuckles.

I roll my eyes and laugh. The warmth of the raspberry vodka is already trickling through my stomach, and I am feeling good.

Better than good, actually.

I’m elated.

I don’t even mind that our favorite, uncrowded dive bar is teeming with people tonight—or that we barely snagged the last two scratched barstools. LuAnne had to perch on Joe’s lap, but I don’t think either of them mind the excuse for a little extra PDA.

“This is all still so crazy to me,” Joe shakes his head, one tawny arm casually slung around LuAnne’s waist. “Obviously, I’m not familiar with the art scene, but even I know that showing at the Ars Astrum is an enormous deal.

Did you have to call in some of your art school connections for an interview or something? Or get on a waiting list?”

“Uh…” They’re both peering at me curiously, and I’m still sober enough to realize that I probably shouldn’t admit to stalking the gallery owner. And especially not to a lawyer. “I just got lucky. The universe is finally working in my favor for once.”

“Oh.” Joe rubs the back of his shaved head. I’m convinced he’s one of ten men in the entire world who actually looks better with a buzz cut than a full head of hair. “Well, hey, that is lucky. Good for you, Poppy.”

LuAnne’s eyes narrow though. “I don’t believe you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t?”

“Nope,” she says. “You, of all people, do not get lucky.”

“What does that mean?” Joe’s eyes dart between us.

LuAnne turns to look at him, adjusting the large, braided bun on top of her head. “When Poppy wants something, she makes it happen. We should be checking to make sure this Ocean woman isn’t tied up in a basement somewhere.”

I roll my eyes again. “Okay, I’m not that crazy.”

But if that was my only option…

“Point is,” LuAnne says. “You’re fucking scary when you want something.”

I shrug.

I’ve never shared the unsavory parts of my past with LuAnne, but we’ve been roommates for six years. She sees more than most people do.

Which is probably why we’re so close.

“Well,” Joe says. “Remind me never to piss you off then, Poppy.”

I crack a smile. “You’ll never piss me off, Joe. According to LuAnne, I might need your help to get out of kidnapping charges one day.”

“Or murder,” she teases.

Joe places his free hand over his suited chest like he’s making a solemn promise. “Sure. You need a lawyer, I’m there.”

Joe and LuAnne have only been together eight months, so he’s still trying to impress her via impressing the best friend. He laughs a little too hard at my jokes. He never forgets to grab me something when they get takeout. He even agrees to pick up the tab on my celebratory night.

And because I enjoy the occasional free dinner and drinks, I don’t have the heart to tell him he impressed me months ago.

“Anyway!” LuAnne hops off Joe’s lap and dusts off her lavender work scrubs. The foggy lighting highlights the layer of Great Dane fur still clinging to the material, but the color complements her dark skin. “Another round?”

I nod. “Sure. I think I can handle one another shot before I have an existential crisis.”

“I second that,” Joe adds. “But maybe something that’s not fruity vodka this time? I don’t think my stomach can handle it.”

“Of course, love.” LuAnne inches up on her tip-toes to press a gentle kiss to his mouth, her eyes lit in a way that makes me feel like I’m the one intruding on their night. “Be right back.”

As LuAnne tries to commandeer the bartender’s attention from a rowdy bachelorette party, Joe and I are left to ourselves.

Ah, awkward silence. My favorite.

As much as I like Joe, we’ve only got one thing in common, and she just walked away.

My gaze flickers to the TV. It’s on a new channel now—no longer the hockey game, but some bushy-haired talk show host whose name I cannot remember. Sally? Sandy? Su—

“Suzie Edmond,” Joe chimes in. “She’s always playing at the County Defender's office for some reason.”

“Really?” I ask, only half-interested.

He nods. “She’s a little dramatic, but she seems to get all the really high-profile celebrities and—okay, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

I blink, the sudden, serious shift taking me by surprise. “What?”

He glances over my shoulder and then leans forward like he’s about to divulge state secrets. “It’s about LuAnne.”

My eyes narrow. “What about LuAnne?”

“Well…” He swallows. “The thing is—” He stops, lips pressed into a thin line.

The nervous energy might as well be oozing out of his pores, and it's making me nervous too. “Sorry. I don’t know why this is so hard to just say . I haven’t told her this, but you’re her best friend, so I figured it might be easier to—”

My head is already racing through the worst of the worst possibilities. Cheating, unplanned pregnancy—

“I want to ask LuAnne to move in with me.”

What?

“What?”

Joe offers me a sheepish, unsure smile and scratches his five o’clock shadow. “I don’t think she has any idea I’m thinking about it—hell, I don’t even know if she’s thinking about it, but I want to ask. Soon.”

“Oh,” is the only response I’m able to muster.

“You can tell me if you think I’m crazy,” Joe continues. “And I know it’s a little fast—”

A little?

You’ve only been dating eight months.

I know that might as well be an eternity if you’re living south of the Mason-Dixon Line, but that’s like two weeks in New York City.

“—but I love her,” he finishes, brown eyes shining with sincerity. “And I want to take things to the next step.”

I should be happy for LuAnne.

She deserves a doting, nice guy like Joe who doesn’t break out into hives at the first mention of commitment.

God knows she’s waded through enough shitty boyfriends to find her happy ending—so, why does this idea make my stomach clench?

Because it means no more movie marathons on our thrifted couch.

No more drowning our post-breakup sorrows in a bowl of broth from Noodletown.

No more two-dollar champagne from the convenience store down the block.

No more friendship.

At least, not the effortless, close friendship that’s developed after six years in the same six-hundred square feet.

If LuAnne moves into Joe’s Crown Heights apartment—a six-mile trek across the East River that might as well be an ocean—she’s going to turn into every other long-distance friend I have.

Occasional ‘I miss you!’ texts and promises to meet for coffee or drinks that never happen. Our nightly hang-outs will become once-a-week, then once-a-month, then once-a-year and a couple of congratulatory messages when we see each other’s online status updates.

“Seriously, Poppy,” Joe’s voice cuts through my spiral. “You’re Lu’s best friend. If you don’t think she’s ready, tell me.” His eyes dance with hope, and a terrible, awful, selfish thought flashes through my head.

I could just tell him she’s not ready.

I could tell him I think he’s moving too fast.

I could pretend like I haven’t spent hours listening to LuAnne tell me how safe and easy and exciting things are with him. Like I haven’t caught her browsing Pinterest boards for wedding ideas at 3AM.

I could fend off LuAnne’s inevitable happy ending for just one more year with her, and she’d never know.

I could keep my best friend for a little while longer.

But when I open my mouth to do just that, what comes out instead is: “I think it’s a great idea, Joe.”

His eyes widen. “Really?”

No.

“Yeah.” I’m smiling through gritted teeth as I nod. “I think LuAnne will be ecstatic.”

His relief is palpable, and the knot in my stomach tightens to an almost painful degree.

I want to be selfish.

But I want LuAnne to be happy more.

Even if it means losing her.

“I hope you didn’t miss me too much!” LuAnne reappears, shots in hand, and I’ve never been happier for a little alcohol to take the edge off.

Joe is beaming ear-to-ear now, and I drink the shot—lighter fluid masquerading as cheap whiskey—in one go. It’s not going to settle well, I can already tell, but the effect is immediate: the room feels lighter. I feel lighter.

“I hope you guys are grateful. I had to fight off a horde of tourists for these,” LuAnne tells us, nodding toward the gaggle of girls at the other end of the counter.

There must be seven or eight of them, all sun-kissed blondes with matching T-shirts that read: I ? NY .

The one in the middle also has a tiara and a hot pink brIDE-TO-BE sash.

“They’re all twenty-one,” LuAnne says. “The bartender was checking their IDs. Can you imagine if we were getting married at twenty-one?” She turns to Joe, her face softening.

“I’m lucky I met you at the right time. If I’d met you back then, fresh out of undergrad, before I knew what a hellscape the New York dating scene was…

” She shakes her head. “Well, let’s just say twenty-eight-year-old LuAnne appreciates you a hell of a lot more than twenty-one-year-old LuAnne would’ve. ”

They look at each other like they’re the only people in the room, maybe even the world, and I have to glance away before the hollow pit forming in my stomach becomes too much.

When’s the last time anyone looked at me like that?

Definitely not since—

“Speaking of marriage, dating, and all things love…” LuAnne nudges me.