Page 7 of Crushes to WHAT

Welcome to book club!

Almond

“And then he said, ‘Lock your door, baby, so I know you’re safe while I’m away.’ And so I did lock my door, and then I melted into a puddle of goo on the hardwood floor. I had to scrape myself out of the cracks this morning to bring myself here, and I’m not entirely sure I got all the pieces. My heart, for instance, did not want to part with the place we last saw Emerson, and my nervous system is fully on the fritz. It might be missing a chunk or two. I have a theory that they aren’t actually in the cracks of my flooring, though, but instead wrapped tight around Emerson’s pinky, dragging my ability to regulate myself with them.”

I punctuate the end of my retelling of last night’s events with a bite of the—it must be said, absolutely horrendous—book club snack. My face screws up. “This doesn’t taste anything like barbecue.”

“Of course it doesn’t taste like barbecue,” Muse Devoe says, rolling her eyes. “It’s lime-flavored potato chips and peanut butter. Why would you think it would taste like barbecue?” She shifts on the firm, faux-leather chair in our rented room at the library and waves an offended hand at the food offerings.

“Because Poem said it did,” I retort from my own faux-leather chair. “And Poem isn’t a liar. It probably just doesn’t taste like barbecue to me. I have different taste buds than she does. Clearly.” I turn to my blonde-haired bestie—and Muse’s younger sister. “I apologize for my reaction to your yummy-to-you snack.”

Tongue sticky with peanut butter, she replies, “Thass okay. Emewson?” She raises an eyebrow, a clear indication that I should get back to the matter at hand.

Muse feels the matter at hand should be the subpar snacking options, not my subpar love life, and definitely not, apparently, the book we’re meant to be discussing, either. “Poem, we’re not inviting you back if you don’t bring a normal snack. You said you were bringing chips and dip. This is not chips and dip.”

Poem takes a chip, dips it in peanut butter, and shoves it in her mouth.

Sonnet, the youngest of the three Devoe sisters, intervenes. “I’m bringing snacks next time. I promise to bring something everyone has confirmed they enjoy.” She smiles, big and bright and appeasing. “For now, why don’t you just eat the chips without the…” Her smile falters. “Dip.” She clears her throat. “They’re pretty good on their own.”

Poem offers the bag to Muse with a shake. “If you change your mind, there’s plenty of dip.”

Muse huffs, blowing short strands of her blonde pixie-cut hair away from her forehead. “If I change my mind, you’ll be the first to know,” she grumbles.

Sonnet slumps in relief as Muse digs into the chip bag to grab a handful. She drops them onto the paper plate in her lap.

I exchange amused glances with the only other person here not related to the sisters—Leora Mouton, girlfriend to my brother, Wolfe. Her green eyes sparkle beneath meticulously crafted soft lavender bangs. I squish my eyes back at her.

I like Leora, and not just because she’s my brother’s girlfriend. I liked her way before that dummy came to his senses and kidnapped his darling love. She’s been a part of book club for a while, and we have similar tastes in books. Read: the more stalking, kidnapping, and questionable morals, the better.

Needless to say, I didn’t need any subtle encouragement to bring Leora into my life, unlike my dolt of a brother. I have brains.

Poem is also a significant other to one of my doltish brothers, as Fox’s fianceé, and she, too, was my friend first. Despite the sad lack of kidnapping, their romance has been at once significantly faster and significantly slower than Fox’s twin counterpart. Poem and Fox milked the enemies portion of their classic enemies-to-lovers romance for years and years before my most beloved trope intervened. Forced proximity, bringing stubborn lovebirds together circa… forever? Probably. I’m not a historian.

Once the forced proximity started doing its thing, though, Fox and Poem moved astronomically fast. Like, engaged and making out on every available surface at the bar within weeks sort of fast.

I’m not complaining. The faster the engagement, the faster she’s legally bound as my sister. They could make out in my salon chair for all I care if that speeds up the process, too.

Wolfe and Leora have been a little more sedate in their love story, likely because Wolfe isn’t just Wolfe. He’s Wolfe and Amia, his beautiful, amazing, absolutely perfect little girl. They’re being responsible adults, making sure that everyone is happy with everything at every stage of their romance. Where Poem and Fox are hot and heavy, Leora and Wolfe are sweet and swoony.

I sigh happily. With friends like these, who needs books, anyway? I have the good stories right in front of me.

Not that I’ll be giving up my books, of course. We must simply acknowledge that they aren’t as good as the real-life beauty I’m lucky enough to witness, nor as entertaining. Kidnappings in books? Hot. Amazing. The best. Getting to watch a kidnapping in real life? The freaking best. No book could ever touch that experience, no matter how hard they might try.

“What are you thinking about?” Leora asks, leaning toward me while the Devoe sisters launch into a discussion about what, exactly, constitutes a “dip.”

“I’m thinking about how much better real life is than books these days,” I answer with a grin. “You and Poem are keeping me well fed in the entertainment department.”

She presses her lips together, but her amusement escapes, anyway. “An interesting sentiment to share at a book club.” She laughs.

I shrug. “Maybe, but it’s true.” I pick up this month’s book and frown at the uninspired cover. I mean, the main male character is blond, for goodness’ sake. “Who picked this, anyway?”

Leora’s eyes dart to Muse, then back.

“Ah,” I say, and we nod together.

It’s not that Muse picks out bad books. It’s that Muse picks out the worst books on planet earth. It’s nearly a talent, the way she pinpoints exactly what no one here would ever want to read, including her. This month, I’m not sure any of us even bothered to read what she declared in the group chat would be “different than all the rest!”—I know that I didn’t.

“What’s got you so cranky today, anyway?” Poem asks, drawing our attention. She glares at Muse, eyes narrowed and nose scrunched.