I scroll down the screen, to the date I need.

And press play.

“Hey, babe. The golf outing ran over. I was gonna stop and pick up a bottle for later. You want Dom or Philipponnat? You know what?

On second thought—screw the champagne. You taste better than both of them put together. I’ll be home in five minutes.”

I close my eyes and let his words wash over me. Drew has an amazing voice. Calm and soothing—but devilishly seductive at the same time. he totally could’ve gone into radio.

I press another button.

This time his tone is teasing. “Kaate, you’re late. Tell Delores to pick out her own goddamn shoes. You’ve got a boyfriend who’s sitting in a big, frothy Jacuzzi all by his lonesome. Come home, sweetheart. I’m here waiting for you.”

If only that was true today.

There’s more—some are quick and to the point, some are downright dirty. And I listen to every single one. he doesn’t say “I love you” in any of them—but he doesn’t have to. I hear it in every word. Every time he says my name.

And I can’t help but wonder how this all happened? how did we get here? And can we ever go back?

I don’t cry. There just aren’t any tears left. I curl up in the middle of my bed. And Drew’s voice lulls me to sleep.

The next afternoon, Billy and I are in the back room of the diner, sharing a plate of fries. he’s working on a new song and he thinks better on his feet.

See him there? Walking from one end of the room to the other, mumbling and humming, and occasionally strumming the guitar strapped across his chest?

I sit at the table. Trying to think my way out of the pit of despair that is now my life.

As Billy crosses toward the door that leads to the diner, something catches his eye in the round window at the top. And he backs away. “Oh, shit.”

I look up. “What? What’s wrong?”

Then the door bursts open. It slams against the wall and then stays in place—afraid to move an inch. Because there, standing in the doorway in all her pissed-off glory, is my best friend.

Delores Warren.

Oh, shit indeedy.

She’s wearing red knee-high leather boots, tight black pants, an embellished black top, and a short, black-and-white faux fur jacket. A myriad of Louis Vuitton bags hang off her shoulders, matching the large wheeled one trailing behind her.

And the anger in her amber eyes makes them sparkle like freshcut topaz stones . “Does someone want to tell me why I had to hear from my mother that there was a Three Musketeers’ reunion going on in Greenville that I wasn’t invited to?”

She stomps forward. Billy moves behind my chair, using me like a human shield.

“Or better yet—would anyone like to explain why my best friend took off from New York like a bat out of hell, leaving behind a shit storm that makes Sandy look like an April-fucking-shower— and I have no idea why?!”

She takes another step forward and drops her bags to the floor.

Then she snaps her head to the right—in the direction of the perky blond teenager standing next to the lockers.

That’s Kimberly. She’s a waitress here. Works after school. She’s seems nice.

And at the moment—terrified.

“hey, Gidget, how about you make yourself useful and get me a Diet Coke? Don’t scrimp on the ice.”

Kimberly flees the room .

Lucky girl.

Delores points at me and yells, like Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men, “Well?! You can’t keep me out of the loop, Kate. I am the loop!”

My voice comes out meek. Repentant. If you’re ever in the attack range of an angry she-wolf, lay down and play dead. It’ll go easier that way.

“I didn’t want to ruin your vacation.”

Delores snorts, “If only Queen Bee-atch Alexandra had been so thoughtful. She called us twenty times at the hotel—freaking out about how we had to come home because Drew needed a suicide watch.”

I roll my eyes. “She’s exaggerating.”

“I thought so too. Until I saw the Dark Prince myself. Wasn’t pretty.”

I take the news like a newborn bird to a worm, greedy for more. “You saw Drew? What did he say? Did he ask about me?”

“he really wasn’t capable of coherent speech at the time.

Mostly just mumbled like the village idiot he is. Jack was carrying him. Apparently Dickwad is making quite the dent in the bar scene these days, and Jack’s been watching his back. Which is frightening in and of itself, considering Jack is poised for the Slutman of the Year award.”

Drew has been going out. To the bars. With Jack O’Shay. You remember the last time Drew went out with Jack, don’t you? Taxi girl?

So this is how it feels to get stabbed with an ice pick—right in the heart.

Billy’s voice is sarcastic, drawing her fire away from me. “hey, Delores, it’s good to see you too. I’m great, thanks for asking. The album? Doin’ awesome—triple platinum. California? Fabulous, couldn’t be happier. Again . . .” he cups his hands around his mouth, megaphone style, “. . . thanks for asking.”

Delores’s eyes zero in on him, looking him over head to toe.

Not happy with what she sees. “It’s called a razor; you should get one. If ancient man could figure it out, you’ve got a slim chance.

Oh—and Pearl Jam called. They want their flannel back.”

Billy’s brows go up. “You’re criticizing my style? Really, Cruella? how many puppies had to die so you could wear that coat?”