TweetyGram

29 - #TweetyMansion

I sat in my kitchen, watching Bree cook some chicken and mushroom risotto while waiting for Jake to pick me up for Charity's birthday bash. He wasn't late—not yet, at least; I was just too early.

"Why do you think he said yes?" I wondered.

Bree flicked her eyes to me. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Jake. When I asked him to be my fake date yesterday, he just said yes. I mean, yeah, I might've rambled about Charity and her stupid TweetyTube video, and he probably felt sorry for me or something, but he didn't ask me a single question. He just said, 'Okay. What time should I pick you up?'" I paused. "Don't you think it's weird?"

She studied me for a moment, her hand stirring the risotto in the pot. "Why did you say yes when he asked you to be his fake girlfriend?"

"Because he wouldn't have helped me with my investigation if I didn't."

"That's it?" She arched an eyebrow. "You're telling me that over these past few weeks, you haven't felt anything toward him?"

I hadn't told Bree about how my heart had skipped a beat—or a few—when Jake and I had been taking those couple photographs for his grandma. Or how butterflies had danced like crazy in my stomach when he'd flashed me that sweet-as-a-cotton-candy smile at Food Truck Friday. Or how one simple compliment from him made me want to sing that stupid Bestie song last night.

No. I wasn't planning on telling her any of that.

"Well, if you're talking about annoyance, frustration, and I-want-to-smack-him-on-the-head-with-a-baguette kind of anger, then yeah. Of course, I've felt all of those things toward him. Who wouldn't?" I shrugged.

"You know that's not what I'm talking about."

I should've known better than to lie to Bree. She always knew when I was lying, and this time was no different.

"Okay, maybe I feel a tiiiny bit attracted to him," I admitted. "But it has to be my TweetyGram fever talking, right?"

The way she furrowed her brow told me she had no clue what TweetyGram fever was, but I wasn't in the mood to explain.

"Besides, we're the Darlings. We suck at love. We should stay far, far away from romantic relationships, or else we'd end up like Mom." As Bree opened her mouth to argue, I continued, "And it doesn't matter how I feel about him because it's obvious he doesn't feel the same about me."

Bree folded her arms over her chest and gave me an are-you-stupid look.

"What?" I frowned.

The knock on the door interrupted our conversation. My heart picked up its pace, my skin turned ice-cold, and every muscle in my body tensed.

"Alright, alright. It's time." I picked up my clutch, stood up, and shook my arms to loosen my muscles. Inhaling a deep breath, I prepared to take a step forward. Yet my legs wouldn't move. It was almost as if they were glued to the ground.

Oh, come on, Lindsey. What is wrong with you? You've spent hundreds of dollars to look pretty for tonight and now you can't even move your darn legs?

I'd spent hours going in and out of department stores, scouring rack after rack of clothes for an evening gown that had a pair of long sleeves and wouldn't make me look like an 80-year-old. Luckily, I found one. The gold dress I was wearing fit me like a glove. Although its underlayer stopped mid-thigh, the lace overlay flowed to the floor, covering the scars on my legs. Even so, I took the time to apply some makeup on them, in case a certain enemy of mine—who seemed to possess superhuman vision—wanted to scrutinize me.