Page 63 of Sweet Nightmare

“You once trusted a ten-year-old psychic.”

“He had excellent reviews.”

I close my eyes.

The psychic with excellent reviews ended up stealing her money.

And yet, Stevie remains convinced the experience was worth it because, according to her, he correctly predicted that she would meet someone important that year.

She met a man who sold her a counterfeit designer handbag.

Apparently, that counts.

The woman is impossible.

Meanwhile, the driver waits patiently beside the SUV, hands folded in front of him, looking as though he has never experienced a single inconvenient emotion in his entire life.

I envy him.

Stevie’s expression finally softens.

“Arty.”

I open my eyes and look back at the screen.

Her smile fades, which is a rare enough occurrence to make me pay attention.

“You’ll be okay.”

Stevie whispers the words so sweetly, without her usual Positive Nancy attitude, that something inside my chest aches.

How odd.

I stare at my best friend, the one person besides my mother who possesses the ability to sweeten my life without making me want to file a formal complaint.

“You make it sound like I’m going to war.”

She laughs.

“No.” Then, more quietly, she adds, “I just think this trip might be good for you.”

I snort.

“Highly unlikely.”

Perhaps I sound colder than I intend because her smile falters, turning sad for a brief second.

Only a second.

Then Stevie is Stevie again, because apparently, emotional vulnerability has a strict time limit in her world.

“Call me when you get there, okay?”

“I will.”

“Pinky promise with strawberries on top?”

I sigh.