Page 82 of Sweet Nightmare

I wouldn’t give her mine, obviously. I need every part of me.

But I’d find her a kidney.

That’s love.

Still, she’s been getting on my last nerve lately with all the bailing on me and sneaking around like I haven’t noticed that she and my mother are up to something.

I know they’re plotting.

I just don’t know what.

And the fact that they’re keeping me in the dark is becoming increasingly irritating.

But I refuse to give them the satisfaction of watching me complain. I'll play along, see how this little performance unfolds, and wait for the perfect moment to turn the tables.

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

“Where is everyone?” I ask.

A pause.

“What do you mean?”

“The artist. His team. Our team.”

Silence.

“You know, anything that indicates this is a work trip?”

More silence.

Got your ass.

“Oh. About that.”

I narrow my eyes and glance at Mika, who’s typing furiously on her phone.

“I may have mixed up the dates,” Stevie says.

She may have mixed up the dates.

Stevie.

The woman who color-coordinates every single aspect of my day. The woman who schedules my appointments down to the minute and once rescheduled an entire photoshoot because the studio lighting was two shades too warm.

That Stevie.

I remain silent.

This silence is the kind of silence that precedes a prison sentence.

“You did what?”

“I accidentally sent you Tuesday’s itinerary.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath, fighting the urge to curse my best friend seven ways to Sunday.

My gaze drops to my white boots and then to the snow beneath them.