Page 21 of Never Not Friends

“Yes, you do. You need to get over Vinny.”

“And you think one blind date is going to get me over a twelve-year devotion to the man?”

“A blind date with the right guy, yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine, if you’re not ready to date yet, you’ll have to get over Vinny some other way.” She frowns. “Intense therapy. Maybe some podcasts. It’s going to take a village. I’ll brainstorm.”

“You’re worried about me for no reason.”

“If you want to keep living in your make-believe world, that’s on you.” She stands, gathering up her food. “I can’t sit here and watch. Your life is going to give me an ulcer.”

“That’s not nice to say.”

She bends down and kisses my head. “You know I love you. But you’re stressing me out.”

I watch her leave, wondering if there’s truth in everything she’s saying.

I’ve always thought helping people is what we should do—the golden rule of life. But then why does Avery act like it’s a bad thing?

I open the gate that leads to the side of my parents’ house and gasp. Whatever I was expecting from Natalie wasn’t furniture. I nearly trip over a five-foot-tall, two-foot-wide cage that looks like it swallowed the staircase leading up to my apartment above the garage.

Natalie beams at me like this is normal. “Meet Chili!”

Chili the chinchilla. How revolutionary.

I blink at the animal in front of me. Natalie said he was tiny. She completely undersold me. This is, like, the size of a rabbit. And don’t even get me started on the cage. It’s basically a chinchilla skyscraper, with ramps and platforms and wheels and…why does it have a little hammock? Do chinchillas actually nap on hammocks?

Natalie starts rattling off instructions faster than I can process: feeding schedule, dust baths, temperature control, cage cleaning, nightly cuddles. Two years of this. I nod dumbly, half listening, half imagining the thing bouncing off the walls of my tiny studio apartment.

“And that’s it! You’ve got this.” She stuffs a bag of supplies into my arms. Before I can even speak, she’s gone.

Inside, I collapse on the couch, staring at the cage, wondering how I’m going to do this. My phone buzzes. Juliet.

Juliet:

Don’t forget tomorrow’s meeting at the invitation print shop. Need you there by 5 p.m. Thanks!

I stare at the text, then at the cage, then back at the phone.

When did saying “yes” become my downfall?

EMMA

Of all the errands a maid of honor who is in love with the groom could run, picking out wedding invitations feels especially cruel.

But it’s for Juliet. So I can do this.

My hand pauses on the door handle. I suck in a deep breath, bracing myself for the heartache.

The bell rings as I walk in, announcing my entrance inside the print shop.

I hesitate, letting the door hit me in the butt. Everything is bright and soft, all cream walls and framed calligraphy. The shop is chic—not surprising, coming from Juliet and her impeccable taste. I expect nothing short of the best for her wedding.

A woman in a maroon blouse and black flowy pants emerges from the back room. The smile on her face says she’s confident she knows who I am.

“You must be Juliet Montgomery, the bride.”