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“Hey,” she says, her voice softer than usual, with the glow of twinkling city lights behind her. “I heard about the article.”
My pulse spikes. “From where? Milan? Ibiza? How on earth did you hear about it?”
“Paris, actually. And word travels fast when you’re the full-time manager of every last one of @SydneySun’s social media accounts.” A tender smile tugs at her lips. “Want to talk about it?”
Do I? Not really.
But will Taylor let it go when she can clearly see me in my finest frump gear, spooning ice cream like it’s the only thing holding me together? Not a chance. I scoop another spoonful into my mouth and shrug.
“You never did tell me what happened with Brian ‘The Total Bastard’ Bishop.”
I laugh, feeling the tightness in my chest ease just a bit. I keep forgetting Taylor was gone most of senior year, jet-setting off to start her modeling career. “Fine,” I say, letting out a sigh. “But no judgment.”
She nods, leaning closer to the screen, fully invested now. “May Ben and Jerry oversee our sacred no-judgment zone.”
“Remember that scholarship from Ma Mabel’s Wicked Good Sweets?”
Taylor’s brow furrows as she thinks. “I remember they were offering something ridiculous, like work there every weekend for a month for a chance to win five grand.”
I point my spoon at her, smirking. “Try every weekend for the entire school year. And I was desperate. So yeah, I was there, in a giant lollipopoutfit.”
“What?” Taylor’s eyes go wide before she bursts out laughing. “You? A giant lollipop mascot? What flavor?”
“Peach.”
Taylor’s laughter bubbles over, and I can’t help but join in. The absurdity of it all—me, dressed as a peach lollipop, waving at cars like my life depended on it—somehow feels lighter now that I’m sharing it with her.
“Please tell me there are pictures,” she begs.
Pictures. My laughter fades to a frown. But I try to make light of it. “I burned every last photo.”
“I bet your mom has some,” she muses absently before asking, “And what exactly was your job?”
“The hell if I know. Drum up business. Show up and look ridiculous. And everything was going fine until”—I let out a long breath—“Brian showed up.”
Taylor blinks, confused. “You dated him?”
“No! Me, he ignored,” I say, the frustration still bubbling up even after all these years. “But Angi? Wherever Hurricane Angi went, he would follow. Chased her down until they were practically attached at the hip. Meanwhile, he made it his mission to remind me just how ridiculous I looked. He and his friends would hang out at the ice cream shop across the street, watching me like I was some kind of freak sideshow.”
“Classic jerk move,” Taylor mutters.
“It gets so much worse.” I take a deep breath, bracing myself to spill the rest. “Every Saturday, I’d rush to the candy shop, change in the back, and slip into that damn lollipop costume. Those things were like portable saunas, and that winter? It was unseasonably warm. I was roasting alive in that suit, so I kept itsimple—tank top and shorts. But somehow, someone managed to snap a photo of me mid-change.”
Taylor’s face falls, concern flooding her eyes. “Naked?”
“Not technically. But it might as well have been,” I say, the memory tightening my chest. “The way the picture was taken, exposing my back. My hair was in pigtails, I was glancing over one shoulder, and with the angle and everything...Ilookednaked. The next day, that picture was plastered all over social media like I’d hired a publicist. And Monday morning, when I went to my locker, hundreds of peach lollipops spilled out, like some twisted joke.”
“Oh, God.”
I swallow hard, the weight of that humiliation still heavy even after all these years. “It was a living nightmare, Tay. Every time I thought it couldn’t get worse, it did.”
Taylor’s eyes widen with a mix of horror and disbelief. “Please tell me you at least got the scholarship.”
“Ha, right. The wholesome candy shop giving five grand away to ‘scandal girl?’” A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow back the tears threatening to spill. “From then on, I was Peach Pop.”
Taylor’s mouth drops open. “And Brian did that?”
“Oh, he did,” I say, the memory still sharp and raw. “Before I got fired from being the worst-paid employee ever, I dug up the receipt. Three hundred peach lollipops, courtesy of Brian Gabriel Bishop.”
