Page 95 of The Grump Next Door
UPDATE: I’m the asshole. She’s incredible. I’m an idiot. That’s all.
The commenters are losing their minds.
“Holy shit,” CeCe whispers, leaning over my shoulder to read the screen.
“Yeah.” It’s all I can manage. My thumb hovers over the refresh button.
“He just—” She gestures vaguely at my phone, at me, at the universe.
“Yeah.” My voice sounds hollow in my own ears.
She leans back, studying my face. “On the internet—”
“I know.” I press my palms against my eyes, but I can still see his updated post burned into my retinas.
She’s quiet for a beat—a rarity—then delivers the verdict: “You’re totally screwed.”
I collapse backward on the bed, letting gravity take me. The ceiling spins, or maybe that’s just me. I think about his hands in my hair and the way he said my name like it hurt, like it cost him something.
“Yeah.” The word comes out as a sigh. “I really am.”
Chapter Nineteen
George Returns
Poppy
The bleat hits me like a personal attack.
I know that bleat.
“No.” I spin around, coffee mug halfway to my mouth. Hot liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim. “No no no no—”
George stands in the middle of the lawn, chewing what looks suspiciously like my backup veil. The one I spent forty dollars on. The one that was supposed to save the day if Ivy’s grandmother’s veil spontaneously combusted.
“How are you HERE?” My voice pitches up, strangled somewhere between disbelief and rage.
He tilts his head. Keeps chewing. Zero fucks given.
“You were picked up. I watched them take you. There was a truck and everything!” I’m gesturing wildly now, coffee forgotten, my free hand slicing through the morning air like I’m prosecuting a case against a goat.
CeCe pokes her head out of the guest house, sleep-mussed and squinting. “Why are you yelling at—oh shit. Is that George?”
“It can’t be George. George is GONE.” But even as I say it, my stomach sinks. That’s definitely George’s signature head tilt. That’s definitely George’s chaos energy.
George bleats again. Definitely George.
“Maybe it’s a different goat?” CeCe offers weakly, pulling her cardigan tighter.
I stare at her. Just stare. Let the full weight of my are-you-kidding-me face do the work.
“A different goat,” I say slowly, carefully, like I’m explaining physics to a toddler. “Who just happens to look exactly like George and showed up on Dean’s property the day before the wedding?”
“Stranger things have—”
George headbutts the folding table. The impact reverberates across the lawn. Three centerpieces topple in slow motion. One vase shatters, crystal exploding across the grass like tiny diamonds of my failure.
“GEORGE!”
