Best Served Fake

thirty-eight // faked her own death

Two months ago, the most unexpected part of receiving an incoming call from Sydney Collins would have been the fact that we weren't already on the phone. Or even that it was a Friday night and I was sitting in my bedroom, instead of already on the couch in her little outhouse, cocktail in hand as I watched her try on a hundred cute outfits for whatever party we were heading out to that night.

But a lot of things had changed since we were sitting in a café two months ago discussing Jack Heath's party. So on the Friday night after my impromptu after-work "date" with Kai, I was surprised when Mum held up my phone from where it was charging on the island. "Sydney's calling," she said.

I looked up from my laptop with a frown. "Sydney?"

Mum glanced down at my buzzing phone. "Yep."

I hated myself for the way my heart kick-started in my chest. Fucking Sydney and the claws she'd spent over half our lives hooking into me, so deep that I didn't know how to begin prying them out. Well, other than by hooking up with the boy she'd been obsessed with forever.

Mum shook the phone at me, and I saw Sydney's name on the display. SYDNEY THE BACKSTABBING BITCH (which I'd angrily changed it upon her tenth apology text) lit up the screen. So, not a different Sydney then. Well. Mum's finger hovered over the phone.

I jumped up from the couch with my hands outstretched in panic. "Don't answer it!" I blurted.

"Shit!" Mum dropped the phone. At my wide eyes, she palmed it again, holding it up triumphantly to showcase the lack of cracks bisecting the screen. And, apparently, Sydney's second call; the first had cut out while Mum was fumbling on the ground for the dropped device. But there her name was again. Mum looked down at it, frowning at the second round of buzzing. "Fuck, again? Is she desperate or... dying?"

"Both, we can only hope," I said without any malice; I didn't have the mental capacity for it.

Mum smiled at the vicious answer—like aw, what a cute little sociopath I raised; thank god I think she's funny—but I was too busy staring at Sydney's name to return the expression. I didn't really hope she was dead, but I couldn't think of any other reason she'd call me. And if she was dead, I hope she'd have the courtesy to try the rest of her contacts before she dialled my number; it would be a tragedy if she died while I debating whether it was worth saving her life.

I was joking. Mostly.

To my credit, if Sydney was on Death's doorstep and calling me about it, it was probably one of many steps on her Sydney Collins Redemption Tour; some desperate ploy to win my forgiveness. And it would work, the conniving bitch.

"Valerie, she hasn't faked her own death for your attention," Mum said, exasperated. At my startled expression, she rolled her eyes. "I know how your mind works, crazy."

"Well, why is she calling me then?" I asked. "Because some extravagant ploy that involves faking her own death is pretty much the only thing I can think of. Like, does she want to chat about her new nail colour? We're not friends. It's insane that she would just call me out of the blue; it's 2022, send a fucking text, right? Seriously, why would she be calling—?"

"Hot tip," Mum interrupted, before I could continue on my panicked ramble. "You could just answer the phone."

I held up a warning finger. "Nope, that's exactly what she wants me to do."

"She's not the fucking mafia."

"She's worse."

Mum rolled her eyes and passed me her half-drained wine glass. "Have some of this, crazy, and calm down." I grabbed the glass from her outstretched hand and gulped heartily; Mum raised a brow as I finished the remaining Chardonnay. Then she squinted at me. "Uh, or do you need me to buy you a joint? A... tranquiliser?"