Just Friends Forever (Sheppards in Love Book 2), page 2
THE PRESENT DAY
The mirror I’m using to help me dress rumbles slightly, accompanied by a muffled cry and a clatter in the apartment below mine. I smile with satisfaction.
“About time,” I say to no one. I’ve been waiting for that yelp for the last hour, and hearing it makes the sleep I sacrificed on last night’s adventure immediately worth it.
I whistle the tune of “Surprise, Surprise” by Bruce Springsteen as I put on my watch, stomping footsteps on the stairs to my apartment providing a decent background beat.
A few seconds later, the door to my room swings open.
“Good morning,” I say brightly, grabbing the brush and running it gently over my hair.
My brother Austin glares at me from the doorway, shirtless, in his boxers, his dark hair disheveled.
I glance at my watch and read the incoming text from the agent whose open house I’m running this afternoon in Bel Air. I’m really hoping I end up with at least one high-end client on my roster by the end of the day.
I slap the watch face to turn off the screen and look back at Austin, who’s still glaring at me. “What’s up?” I say.
He scoffs. “So innocent-sounding.”
I raise my brows, pretending not to know what he’s talking about. When he arrived with a stack of promotional posters and a life-size cardboard cutout of himself, there was only one viable option: stay up late one night and cover every inch of his apartment with them while he slept. I placed the cardboard cutout directly next to his bed for a special surprise when he woke up.
Rather than responding, I focus on making sure every last brown hair of mine is perfectly in place.
“That stupid thing scared me to death,” he says, stepping into the room. He’s been on tour as the opening act for James Arthur the last few months, so it’d been a while since I’d seen him when he showed up a few days ago. He looks good, as his five-hundred thousand social media followers can—and frequently do—attest to.
“Give yourself some credit, Aus. You’re pretty ugly, but you’re not that bad to look at.”
“Har, har.” He catches a glimpse of himself in the black-rimmed mirror and runs a hand through his hair. “I thought it was a psycho fan or something at first, like that guy they found sleeping in Taylor Swift’s apartment.”
“Nope. Not a psycho fan.” I come up behind him and brace his shoulders with my hands so we’re both staring in the mirror. I give them a squeeze. “Just your biggest fan.” The fact that he’s comparing himself to Taylor Swift says a lot about how he sees himself.
He shoots me an annoyed look in the mirror. “Isn’t there a law against a landlord entering tenant property without notice?”
I frown, pretending to ponder the question as I button my sleeves. I shake my head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.” It does. But I didn’t go into his side of the duplex last night as a landlord. I went on brotherly duties. He has so many fans ready to fall down and worship him, I consider it my personal commission to mess with him. Keep him grounded.
“It’s not the only thing that doesn’t ring a bell,” he mutters. “How long did it take you to do all that?”
I shrug. “Twenty minutes for the posters, maybe. The cardboard cutout was quick once I saw how deeply you were sleeping. The hardest part was not laughing.”
He shakes his head and plops down on my perfectly made bed, rubbing his eyes.
In the last couple years, especially on this last tour, Austin’s music has brought him a lot of success. He’s the exciting, cool one in our family—cool enough to have fan merchandise. Merchandise with which he can be pranked. His manager sent it with him for the high school reunion gig he’s playing in a couple weeks. I helped him shove the stuff in the closet in his half of my duplex, but my mind immediately started exploring ideas for what I could do with it.
“You realize we have to leave in”—I check my watch—“eight minutes, right? Are you even packed?”
He sighs and stands up, stretching his arms above him and yawning. “I’ll be ready.”
It’s been thirty minutes by the time he steps outside with his suitcase. I keep my mouth shut, though. I’m used to sitting around, waiting for clients to turn up for house showings, while Austin has gotten used to people functioning on his schedule. Perks of being a big deal.
Besides, if I’m serious about getting into the luxury real estate market, I’ll have to get used to entitled behavior, so I just consider this good practice.
Austin hoists his suitcase into the trunk as my across-the-street neighbor steps outside and waves.
“Got that new hose attachment installed for you yesterday, Troy,” he calls over.
I glance toward the side of my house, where the hose is wound around the reel. Even from here, I can see the new red head. “Sweet. Thanks, Mr. Gates! I really appreciate that.”
“I tried it out, and it’s working like a charm. I think you’ll really enjoy it.”
“I plan to,” I say with another wave as he slides into his car to head to work.
“You can’t install your own hose?” Austin says with amusement as we shut our doors.
“It’s an attachment, Aus,” I say. “And it’s not a normal one.” I saw Mr. Gates using his hose to pressure wash his house last week and had immediate neighbor envy.
“You sure you don’t want to put your stuff in a storage unit?” I give my house a quick once-over as we pull away. It’s a good-looking place—and it was a stretch for my budget, but being a real estate agent has made me particular about where I live. From the outside, you wouldn’t know it, but it’s a stacked duplex. I live upstairs, and Austin rents the downstairs unit from me. “It’d be a lot cheaper than paying me rent every month. You’re hardly ever here, and you can always crash on my couch when you need to.”
He shakes his head as he shoots off a text. “I like having somewhere of my own when I’m in town.”
“Suit yourself,” I say. I guess I can see how life in posh hotels would get old.
Nope. I lied. I can’t see it at all. The room service alone makes my mouth water. Besides, my duplex isn’t a dump, but it’s not the Ritz Carlton, and the posters I put up while Austin was sleeping are the only decor in his apartment at this point. It would take me all of an hour to pack up his stuff and store it elsewhere.
I don’t push my offer, though. Having Austin in there is guaranteed rental income from the easiest tenant on the planet. He’s only here for a few days at a time every couple of months.
“Do you want me out?” he asks, as though it’s just occurred to him why I might be asking.
“Nope.”
His mouth widens into a smile as he stares at my profile. “Awwww. You’re lonely, aren’t you? Sorry, bro. My contract isn’t up until next year. But I give you permission to sleep with that cardboard cutout of me on those lonely nights.”
“What?” I say loudly as I put in my Bluetooth earpiece and point to it. “I can’t hear you over the sound of my girlfriend calling.”
He scoffs. “You don’t have a girlfriend.”
I stare deep into his eyes as I answer the call and say, “Hey, beautiful.” And then I return my eyes to the road. Winning this spat isn’t worth killing both of us. Probably. Also, if he looks at me too carefully, he’ll know I’m embellishing the truth. Lyla’s not my girlfriend. We’ve only been going out three weeks, but my girlfriend is a lot pithier than the girl I’ve gone out with a lot over the past couple weeks and like pretty well so far.
“Hey, yourself,” Lyla replies, the smile she’s wearing evident in her voice. “How are you?”
Even from the corner of my eye, I can see Austin watching me to evaluate if I’m messing with him.
“Doing great,” I respond. “Hey, sorry about last night. My client insisted on inspecting every crevice of all three houses and then discussing their pros and cons in excruciatingly painful detail.”
“It’s okay. I wish you could have been there, though. Jamie always throws the best parties. You on your way to Bel Air?”
“Got to drop my brother off at the airport first, but yeah.”
There’s a pause. “Your brother. As in Austin?” The ohh-la-la in her voice is almost palpable. Austin has that effect on people, especially women. Even more so on mid-pubescent girls. Watching video clips of him singing at concerts is vomit-inducing.
I keep the smile pasted on my face. “The only brother I’ve got.”
“Troy! You should have told me. I would have come with you!”
I pause, trying to keep myself rational and my tone light. It’s normal for people to be star-struck when they don’t know firsthand how rarely Austin bathed as a teen. “Then you would have had to join me at the open house too, which, to be fair, I wouldn’t have complained about.”
“Me neither.”
Is she saying that because hanging out with Austin Sheppard in the car for half an hour would be worth that hefty sacrifice, or because she really would enjoy being with me at the open house? Do I even want to know the answer to that question?
“So,” she says, “is he heading out of town for a while? Or will he be back soon?”
I glance at Austin, and he raises a brow like he’s curious what’s being said. I like to tease him about all the women—or teenyboppers—he attracts now that he’s “made it,” but somehow, it’s less fun when it’s my girlfriend fixating on him. My not-girlfriend. Whatever.
He tries to steal the Bluetooth earpiece from my ear, and I pull away.
“Let me talk to her,” he mouths. He still doesn’t believe me.
I avoid his second attempt to steal my earpiece. I’m not eager to listen to him chat up Lyla for ten minutes—whatever the result of that conversation might be. She certainly wouldn’t be the first girl who preferred my older brother to me.
“I’m not sure what his plans are,” I say to her. “Hey, Lyla, let me call you back later. We’re just pulling up to the airport.”
Austin scoffs as I hang up. “Lyla, huh? And you call this pulling up to the airport?” He gestures to the traffic surrounding us on the freeway.
I don’t respond, pretending to focus on switching lanes. I’m not about to tell him I lied to stop Lyla from fawning over him. I love my brother. But so does everyone else, and it gets a little old sometimes.
“Hey,” Austin says after a minute. “I’m just teasing. I think it’s great you’re dating someone.”
I shoot him a funny look. “Like I haven’t ever dated anyone or something?”
“You’ve gone on dates, yeah, but you haven’t had a steady girlfriend in years.”
“Says the guy hanging backstage with different women every night.”
He chuckles. “Sheesh. No need to get feisty. I said it was great you’re with Lola, didn’t I?”
“Lyla.”
“I thought maybe you were still hung up on Stevie,” he says, ignoring my correction.
I slap a hand on his shoulder and squeeze extra hard. “Welcome to the current decade.” Stevie got married to a hotshot actor, Curtis Carr, a few years ago. We’ve kept in touch a bit since then, but it’s been months since I’ve heard from her.
Austin is just about the last person I enjoy discussing Stevie with. I blame her huge, years-long crush on him for the fact she could never see me as more than a friend.
When we pull up to the curb at LAX, Austin hops out of the car. He ducks his head back in. “Hey. Thanks for the apartment decorations. Don’t take them down. I want you to think of me every time you violate our landlord/tenant agreement. Oh, and tell your fake girlfriend Lyla I say hi.” The door shuts before I can respond.
He wheels his suitcase a few feet, then pauses in front of the bumper and pulls out his phone to answer a call.
I smash the horn, and he jumps in surprise. Showing him a toothy grin, I wave as I pull away from the curb.
Tapping my finger on the white quartz countertop, I crane my neck to see through the nearest window. Still no cars. Only three couples have come through the house in the last two hours, and all of them already have agents, making this open house a complete waste of my time. Apparently, today is not the day I get a client looking for a ten-million-dollar home.
I look around the immaculate kitchen with white, soft-close upper cabinets that reach to the ceiling, navy blue lowers with brushed gold hardware, and a ten-foot island. The entire house has been professionally staged and looks like it belongs inside Elle Decor.
I can only dream of having the sort of money to afford something like this, which is kind of the reason I’m here. At one of these open houses, I’m bound to find a home buyer who needs an agent. If they’re looking at a house like this, they’ll have plenty of money—and plenty of friends with plenty of money—to spend on a house that costs millions of dollars. Then, instead of trying to help buy and sell multiple small houses a month, I’ll be able to help clients buy and sell a couple of mansions a year. If I play it right, I can become the go-to real estate agent for some of the who’s who of LA.
One of the couples who came in today was younger than me, definitely in their early twenties. As I showed them around and let them peruse the rooms, I couldn’t help but wonder what life might have been like if I’d been able to afford something like this at their age. Maybe things could have been different with Stevie. Maybe, just maybe, it might have changed the way she looked at me. She was always a dreamer when it came to the future. I feel like I’m still reaching for those heights, while she’s already attained them—and then some.
I smack a hand on the counter and pick up my phone. These are dumb thoughts. Dumb and embarrassing. That ship sailed years ago. Sailed and shipwrecked. I’m not hung up on it, either. I genuinely want Stevie to be happy. Which she is. How could she not be? She’s married to one of the biggest actors in Hollywood, living the jet-set life.
I navigate to my messages and open the thread with Lyla.
TROY
You really should have come. We probably could have watched a movie in the home theater together.
LYLA
That slow, huh?
TROY
Just about. You sure you have to work tonight?
LYLA
Yeeeeah. But not tomorrow night *wink-face emoji*
I stare at her text for a minute. Should I feel more bummed out that she’s busy tonight—and more excited to see her tomorrow? I haven’t seen her in a couple days. It’s not like I’m not excited. I’m probably just tired from my late-night escapades. Maybe tonight I will snuggle up with Austin’s cardboard cutout. Or put on my boxing gloves and punch it to smithereens.
I open social media and check my notifications out of pure boredom. It’s quick because there are none; I don’t really post. I fall solidly under the category of casual lurker. I navigate back to the main page, but my thumb pauses before swiping out of the app.
A photo of Stevie and her husband Curtis stares back at me. It’s a few days old, and I’ve already seen it, but I stare at it anyway. The tagged location is Maui, and it’s a sunset shot of the two of them on a yacht.
She’s got her head on his shoulder and a soft smile on her face. It simultaneously makes me feel better and worse. She and Curtis met in the lobby of an LA hotel, and when I met him a couple days later, I thought he was all wrong for her. As her best friend, I found it almost impossible to balance supporting her in what she wanted and watching out for what I thought was her well-being. Maybe if I hadn’t been rejected by her already and wouldn’t have come off as the jealous best guy friend (which, to be clear, I was, 100%), I might have said something. Instead, I kept my mouth shut. Pretty sure she knew anyway.
But I was the one who was wrong—not just wrong for Stevie but wrong about Curtis. It’s been almost four years since they got married, and they still ooze wedded bliss. If you search #couplegoals on social media, Curtis and Stevie—or Cursteph, as they’ve been affectionately dubbed—will show up in over fifty percent of the posts.
I’m genuinely happy for Stevie. All the attraction I struggled against for so long is gone. I just miss our friendship. She’s got Curtis, but I’ve never found anyone to take her place in my life.
I tap on her husband’s account and scroll through a few rows of pictures. It’s nothing I haven’t seen. A lot of travel, a lot of glitz and glam from awards ceremonies and banquets and galas.
Visually, Stevie fits right in, but I’ve always felt like she was too good for Hollywood. She and Curtis have been media darlings from the get-go, so, once again, I was wrong. I can’t go to the grocery store without seeing their pictures plastered all over the tabloids at checkout. She looks like she was made for the red-carpet life.
Apparently, I was made to stand around in nice homes that don’t belong to me.
I scroll up to Curtis’s most recent post. It’s one I haven’t seen—another candid shot—and I pinch my fingers to enlarge it. Curtis is smiling in the background, pushing Stevie on a swing. She’s leaning back, her legs stretched in front of her, her blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail as she laughs with her eyes shut. She looks … happy.
The picture brings back memories of summer nights at the local elementary school playground when we would see who could get higher on the swings. We’d jump off and mark who landed the farthest. She always lost, and the time I offered to help her, she went flying like a frisbee.
I smile. Those were great times.
I hesitate, then navigate to my text messages. It takes a lot of scrolling to find the thread with Stevie. Our text conversations since she got married are never long or deep, but I like knowing she’s doing well. We were best friends for so long that even though things are different now, I’ll always consider her in that light.
That’s part of why I feel a check-in is long overdue.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I open the thread and start typing.
