Best Served Fake

four // forgive me

Sydney and Tommy. Tommy and Sydney. The pair of them. Together. And by pair, I refer to two brain cells they are apparently sharing. To do dirty, disgusting things to each other—things that play behind my eyelids every time I close them—at a party that I am attending. Like, what kind of super spies did they say think they were? The assholes didn't even lock the door.

Sydney and Tommy. Tommy and Sydney. My boyfriend and my best friend. My ex-best friend and my ex-boyfriend.

I sat at the top of the stairs. It would be a few minutes, at least, before Ms. Dead to Me and Mr. Irrelevant to my Life discussed their general suckage as human beings, redressed in the outfits that apparently were ever so intensely seductive that it inspired said suckage, and left their den of iniquity. Plus, I knew Sydney. She would never emerge from that bedroom until she had a game plan; a perfect story to spin in which she was the heroine, the crazy fun one, the shining star at the centre of everyone's universe.

I smirked, thinking of the panic on her face as she paced up and down the bedroom, rubbing her temples. Think, Sydney, think, she would say, as if narrating her TV show. Well, good luck, Sydney. I dare you to find a story in this that makes you look good.

So, yeah, I had time to sit and ponder. And wait for the room to stop spinning so that I could walk down the stairs instead of falling down them. I think the remainder of that drink I'd downed before my search for the asshole brigade was starting to hit with force.

I tried to force my brain to comprehend our current predicament, but alcohol prevented any complex analysis of the general what-the-fuckery of the whole situation, and the only thoughts I could gather were: what the fuck, nakedness, Sydney and Tommy, ex, ex, ex, boobies.

It was not particularly insightful.

My phone pinged. Cora. Hey, Syd just texted me. It was kind of weird though.

She had attached Sydney's message to her. Babe, I really fucked up. Like, epically. On epic levels. But I'm really sorry. Please don't be mad at me.

Not an apology. Not an acknowledgment that Cora had spent the entire night worried that Sydney was roofied or dead in a river or fighting a bear or whatever fun activity would make for the best story. Just a fun teaser trailer for the next season of Sydney Show—asking for Cora's easy sympathy before airing the big plot twist.

Come to think of it, my best friend was kind of a wanker.

Tommy's text came through next. Don't leave the party, Ally. Please. Don't throw away two years over this. It was a mistake. I love you so so much, baby.

I snorted a laugh. Yeah, okay. And you send this while still in bed with my best friend? Class act, douchecanoe. I didn't deign him with that response. My thoughts were damning, but I would let him grovel and weep and beg, hopeful that I would take him back, before ripping that hope out from under him.

As it turned out, I was not as much of a pushover as everyone thought I was.

There was a long moment before I realised my hand was at my throat, toying with the delicate T necklace Tommy had gifted me a year ago, after we'd watched the second High School Musical movie. I'd proclaimed Troy Bolton's gift to Gabriella—a necklace with his initial—the cheesiest, most narcissistic gift ever. "I mean," I had said. "That's not even relevant if they break up. Limited time, so she can't even keep it. Plus, it's like an ownership dog tag, it's weird. If you buy me a present, make sure it's one I can still totally use if I dump your ass."

When Tommy had bought me a similar gift, I'd scrunched my nose at him and he had grinned, warm and loving. "We're not gonna break up, so it's hardly a problem." Then he'd dropped a kiss on my forehead. "Plus, I thought it was funny."