Page 59 of The Holiday Makeover

Honestly, what was I really afraid of?

That was a good question.

My phone buzzed violently in my coat pocket. I recognized the buzz. Don’t ask me how, but I knew it was Lily—and I could tell it was a buzz of discontent. A knowing buzz, even. That meant someone or someones at the hardware store had recognized us and texted my best friend.

Oh. Crap.

I hadn’t told Lily I’d decided to give Tate another chance. I mean, I hadn’t really told him I was skipping the try-before-you-buy stage either, but he’d seemed to catch on. I thought it would be better to tell Lily in person when she got back into town on Sunday—face-to-face, so she didn’t think anyone was holding me hostage.

You know, besides myself—but that was another story.

I fished out my phone, and sure enough, a slew of Lily texts glared at me. Before I could read them, Tate managed to catch my eye and mouth, “Sorry,” before he was consumed by his ever-growing fan club.

I did what I normally did and slipped further into the background, berating myself the entire time. Although, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. Weasel my way in there and stake my claim? That smelled of psycho, clingy girlfriend—definitely not the vibe I was going for.

Ugh.

I would have to figure out the best way to handle this going forward. I hadn’t been given time to prepare mentally for this turn of events in my life. Oh, Coco. Did she have any idea what she’d done? Probably—and no doubt she was enjoying every second of it.

I clicked on Lily’s texts and got a digital earful, one sentence at a time.

Lily: Uh, what in the holy hell is going on over there?

Lily: I’m receiving disturbing reports about you and a certain ex we hate.

Lily: Please confirm or deny these reports.

I looked around to see who I might know who was sending these supposedly disturbing reports. All I could see was a cute little old man checking out the paintbrushes.

Me: First of all, I’m pretty sure there is nothing holy about hell. Secondly, how disturbing are we talking about here? Like we robbed a bank or something? Because that rumor is absolutely false. We were saving that for later. Be sure to watch the news reports.

I smiled to myself for my wit, even though I was withering inside. I was definitely back in the fishbowl. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming, I silently repeated to myself.

Lily: So, you are with Tate?

Me: I can confirm we are at the hardware store together—yes.

Lily: Don’t mess with me. I’m coming off two days with my in-laws and teething babies. And I’m pretty sure my period is about to start after a year of nursing and not having one.

Yikes. That sounded diabolical.

Now I felt extra bad for having to break the news to her—especially via text. I wanted to witness her aneurysm in person and then talk her down from it. And remind her that Coco might haunt her—and not in the friendly way—if she tried to impede me moving forward with Tate.

Not that the group of women fawning all over him didn’t give me some pause. But I couldn’t let my insecurities rule me this time.

Me: Sorry you’re not feeling well. I’ll bring chocolate and we’ll watch While You Were Sleeping when you get home. Nothing cheers you up more than the “leaning” scenes. Or when a guy gets pushed onto the train tracks. And . . . . . . . . .

I added as many dots as possible, delaying the inevitable.

Me: I’m giving Tate a second chance. Please don’t hate me. I have good reasons—promise. And no, I’m not under duress or being held hostage.

Except by my heart.

I watched my phone, waiting for Lily’s response. Little bubbles kept appearing and disappearing. This was not a good sign. As a lawyer, she was quick on her feet and always knew what to say. I’d once watched her make a hardened criminal cry in court. The fact that she was tempering her response terrified me.

I got it, though. I’d sworn to hate Tate for the rest of my life. And cried on her shoulder for two days straight after he left. Her reluctance was her being a good friend—a best friend.

While I waited for Lily to berate me, I watched Tate and his steadily growing flock of fans.