The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1)

by Julie Johnson

  “Are you decent?” I ask after a moment of silence, peeking through my fingers when he doesn’t answer.

  He’s lying on the bed, sheet pulled up barely to his hips. My eyes lock on the trail of hair leading down from his belly button beneath the thin fabric, transfixed by the slight rise and fall of his muscled chest as he breathes in and out. Feeling a bit weak in the knees, I lean back against the door to keep myself standing.

  Dear lord, he may lack common sense and all semblance of rhythm, but there’s no denying he’s the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Even black-out drunk.

  There are deep shadows under his closed eyes. An errant lock of hair falls across his forehead. From the looks of it, he’s already dead to the world.

  “Okay, then.” I pull in a steadying breath. “I’ll just be going then.”

  Grabbing my purse from the floor, I turn and force myself to walk out the door before I can do something utterly stupid… like cross the room and brush the hair off his face, or strip down to my skin and climb into bed beside his warm frame, wrapping myself around him until heat sinks into my bones and that feeling I got earlier, when he was dancing in his space socks and the whole world seemed made of stardust, settles back over me like a blanket.

  That would be more than stupid — it would be downright crazy.

  Because he’s your co-star, a snarky internal voice reminds me. Because you hate him.

  You do hate him…

  Don’t you?

  “Goodnight, Grayson,” I whisper, pulling his bedroom door closed with a soft click and shaking my head at my own ridiculous thoughts. “I’ll see you Monday.”

  * * *

  S omeone is pounding on my door.

  I groan and bury my head deeper beneath my pillows, praying whoever it is will either be struck dead by lightning or simply give up and go away. After a few beats of silence, the pounding continues.

  “KAT! I know you’re in there!” A fist pounds again. “Open up!”

  I recognize Harper’s voice. Imagining a myriad of ways to kill her, I force myself out of bed, still barefoot and dressed in the baggy t-shirt I slept in, and stalk down the stairs with vengeance on my mind.

  “Come on, Kat!”

  She bangs again. Her fist is still poised in the air, ready to strike, when I slide off the security chain and yank open the front door, a dark scowl contorting my features.

  She’s standing there smiling at me, her hair a dizzying shade of turquoise, dressed in spandex workout clothes and clutching what appears to be a stack of magazines.

  “Morning, sunshine!”

  I blink rapidly, struggling for coherent words. “Why… you… and the pounding… I was asleep…” I trail off with a squeak of distress, which she ignores, pushing past me into the apartment and heading straight for the kitchen. Her voice drifts back to me as she disappears from sight.

  “I’ll make coffee!”

  I slam the door closed and follow her, grinding my teeth. “I don’t want coffee. I want to go back to bed.”

  “It’s noon!” She snorts, as though the idea is ludicrous. “And you promised you’d go running with me this morning.”

  “When do we ever run?”

  “We run,” she says defensively, pouring a scoop of ground beans into a filter and shoving it into my crappy coffee maker. “Sometimes.”

  “No,” I say, collapsing onto a wobbly kitchen chair, its wooden legs uneven on the peeling laminate. “We get dressed up in yoga pants and cute sports bras, stroll the boardwalk, and drink vile green smoothies. I’m sorry, but that doesn’t constitute working out. Even in LA.”

  “Whatever. You still promised.”

  “When did I promise?”

  “Yesterday. After sushi.”

  “Yes, but I was younger then, and full of hope.”

  “And, of course, you didn’t know you’d be out all night, hooking up with Grayson Dunn.”

  My mouth falls open. “What? I didn’t! How did you even know—”

  “It’s all over the tabloids.” She gestures at the stack of magazines on the table in front of me. My eyes move to the one on top. My hands shake a bit as I reach out and turn it over, revealing a blurry photo of myself — all bare legs and big hair and high heels, standing on a dark sidewalk with my arm wrapped tight around Grayson’s waist. He looks half-asleep in the photo, leaning heavily on my shoulder. The bold yellow title spans nearly the entire front page.

  GRAYSON’S NEW GIRL! Their secret romance caught on camera… Details on Page 13!

  My teeth sink into my lip as I flip through the stack of remaining tabloids, all bearing similar pictures and captions. Harper doesn’t interrupt my silent freak-out session — she just sets a steaming cup of black coffee on the table in front of me and waits until I’ve gotten myself under control enough to speak.

  “I knew it would be bad,” I murmur, taking a sip that scorches my tongue. “But not this bad.”

  She shrugs. “Grayson’s big news, babe. Looks like now you are, too.”

  I grimace at the thought.

  “So?” Her dark brows lift. “You gonna spill, or do I have to tip you over and pour it out of you?”

  “It’s not what you think.” I take another sip before giving her a brief run-down of what happened last night at Balthazar, followed by the drive back to Grayson’s. I skim over the naked-dancing bits and, thankfully, she doesn’t press for too many details.

  “Damn.” She lets out a low whistle when I finish my recap. “Ryder Woods and Grayson Dunn, in one night? You lucky little bitch.”

  “Lucky? Lucky ? My ass is plastered on every magazine stand from here to Toledo, my car is stranded at Balthazar, and I had to take an Uber back here at five in the morning, driven by a creepy dude named Pedro who kept checking me out in the rearview.”

  “That’s at least an hour away — what’d that cost you?”

  “Everything I made in tips last night, and then some. Which means I might as well leave my car sitting in the Balthazar lot, because I can’t afford to fix it.”

  She winces.

  I push the stack of tabloids away with a huff. “Cynthia’s going to flip out when she sees these. God forbid I show my face in public without her express permission! You know, if she worried half as much about her own life as she does about my image , she might actually be happy.”

  “Doubtful.” Harper tucks a strand of blue hair behind one ear. “Your mother thrives on misery. She’d have no purpose, without someone to yell at.”

  “Well, I just wish I wasn’t the one taking the brunt of her yelling so often. Her last three assistants have quit about ten minutes into the job.”

  “Can you blame them?”

  “Not at all.” I catch sight of a thick white envelop sticking out from the bottom of the stack of tabloids. “Hey, what’s that?”

  “Oh, right! That was on your doorstep when I got here. I forgot.”

  I reach for the package, tear it open, and pull out a thick, spiral-bound stack of papers with a sticky note on the front.

  “It’s from Wyatt,” I murmur, skimming the note.

  K atharine —

  Here’s your script and filming schedule. A car will pick you up from your apartment and drive you to the AXC Pictures soundstage at 9AM on Monday morning. We’ll be here in LA for the first few days, shooting the CGI crash sequences with green screens. After that, we’ll head to Hawaii and film the rest on location.

  Rest up, read through your lines, and, for god’s sake, stay away from Dunn. I thought you were smarter than that, Firestone.

  —WH

  “ H e’s such an ass ,” I say affectionately, both amused and annoyed by his implications. Not to mention his use of my full name, knowing it would piss me off.

  “I can’t believe you’re on a first name basis with Wyatt Hastings,” Harper mutters bitterly. “The man is a god.”

  “He’s mortal, trust me.”

  “Listen, I was wondering…” She trails off a
nd her cheeks go red. My interest is immediately piqued — Harper doesn’t embarrass easily.

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing. Never mind.”

  “Harper. Tell me.”

  She sighs. “It’s stupid. But, well… I was wondering if maybe you could talk to Wyatt about getting me a spot on the costume crew doing makeup and hair? I’m between jobs right now, so I have free time.” Her words come out in a rush. “If that would be weird, or put you in a bizarre situation, absolutely forget about it. I know it’s an indie film, so they have a limited crew and budget, but I was just thinking—”

  “—that it would be awesome to have you on set with me all the damn time to keep me sane and prevent me from murdering Dunn between takes?” I finish, beaming. “Because I fully agree.”

  “Really?” she asks, grinning back at me.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. Sorry — I’m a shitty friend.”

  “No, you aren’t! You’ve had a lot going on. I understand.”

  “I’ll talk to Wyatt first thing Monday.”

  “You’re the best.”

  “You realize you’d have to come to Hawaii with us, right? We’re filming on the beach, since the majority of the movie is just me and Grayson on the island. There’ll be a small production crew, of course, plus Wyatt and Sloan… But we’ll be there for more than two weeks.”

  She nods. “Yeah, you told me. I think it would be good to get away. Things with Greg are…”

  “What? Did something happen?”

  “Nothing major.” Her eyes are on the scratched tabletop. “He’s just been distant, lately. And whenever I ask about it, he accuses me of smothering him . Which, honestly, I’m not trying to do. At all. I’m just concerned about him.” Her voice goes up an octave. “Why does asking if someone is okay, or calling to check in on them when they’re two hours late for the special dinner you spent all afternoon slaving over in front of a hot stove, mean you’re somehow clingy or desperate ? I mean… do you know how expensive filet mignon is? I had no idea! And I don’t even like steak that much! But I went out and bought it specially for him, and then he doesn’t even bother to show up.”

  “Rude.”

  “Tell me about it.” She sighs heavily. “He’s just… not himself.”

  “Just that one night? Could’ve been an off day at work, or—”

  “No, it’s more than that.” She hesitates. “Lately, I’ve noticed… He doesn’t come home at his normal time… and when he does finally get home, he hops straight into the shower as soon as he walks in the door. And… he doesn’t even kiss me goodnight, anymore.” Her fingertip traces absent patterns on my crappy tabletop. “It’s probably all in my head. He wouldn’t cheat on me. Would he?”

  Yes! Yes, of course he would! I want to scream. This is Greg we’re talking about.

  I take a purposeful sip of coffee to avoid responding right away, trying to buy some time to compose my thoughts into something that sounds vaguely supportive. In truth, I’m practically giddy to hear she and Greg are having problems. I realize on the surface, this may seem selfish and sadistic; in my defense, Greg is a total loser. The day Harper swiped right on his shirtless mirror-selfie was the dawn of a horrid new era of her life. My deep love for her is the only reason I even attempt to keep a lid on my extreme hatred of him.

  Greg .

  His name alone pisses me off; the fact that he’s driven a wedge between me and the girl I once considered my best friend in the world infuriates me beyond belief.

  Because how can we be best friends anymore, if we can’t discuss the most important part of her life with anything approaching honesty or candor? How can we eat sushi and drink smoothies and talk about our lives without ever mentioning the elephant in the room that is her jackass of a boyfriend?

  I didn’t start dating the jerk, but he’s affected my life all the same.

  Harper no longer invites me over for dinner parties at their new apartment by the beach. We have been reduced to bi-monthly lunch dates at a neutral location halfway between our apartments, during which we sip expensive cocktails and pretend not to notice how strained our conversations have become.

  Perhaps it is because I have never had a great love, a true love, a soulmate, and thus never had my heart broken thoroughly enough to feel the true sting of a break up, but the slow disintegration of my friendship with Harper has been more painful than losing any of my idiot ex-boyfriends. I have lost my closest confidant, my truest ally, my most stalwart drinking buddy... and to a thirty-year-old pot dealer who "doesn't want to be tied down" with a career, no less.

  There's very little I can do to rectify the situation. Greg, lame and immature as he may be, has latched onto my friend with all the tenacity of a barnacle on the bottom of a ship, and I have a feeling it'll take more than my murmured sarcastic comments and snarky side-eyed glances to force him out. It pains me to see that Harper, like so many before her, has fallen victim to the lure of a man whose immaturity she mistakes for playfulness and whose lack of ambition she confuses for free-spiritedness.

  There is an epidemic in our country, affecting men in their twenties. I'm not talking about the man-bun — that's another issue entirely. No, I'm referring to the sweeping diagnosis known as Peter Pan Syndrome, which has birthed a terrifying new specimen: the man-child. The Gregs of the world. You know the type. The one who never grew up and, frankly, has no intentions of ever doing so because, well, why the hell would he want to do that when instead, he can scrape by exploiting the resources of his parents just long enough to land himself a successful woman who’ll take care of him for the rest of his life?

  The man-child is the guy who never wants to work or dream or do anything except Netflix and chill . He has no interest in your ambitions because he hasn't got any of his own. His plans extend no farther than where he will be getting drunk next weekend. The two-hundred-thousand-dollar college degree his parents paid for out of pocket sits in a cardboard roll beneath his childhood four-poster bed where he still sleeps because he doesn't have a job, let alone an apartment.

  I’ve dated this guy in several different variations, over the years — the hipster barista version, the sky diving adrenaline-junkie version, the wannabe tech-startup version, the Instagram travel blogger version. At the end of the day, it has never amounted to anything more than a paralyzing sense of self-doubt accompanied by several months’ worth of obsessing over someone who was never emotionally equipped to be in a relationship in the first place.

  Don’t get me wrong — it’s not that I don’t understand the general appeal of the man-child.

  Yes, he is fun . He will make you laugh and tell you jokes and make you feel like that small, broken part deep down inside you doesn't matter. But eventually you will realize that's only because he never bothers to look that deep. He doesn't care enough to.

  There's a certain kind of safety in the superficiality of your interactions. A feeling of anonymity in the circumference of his arms. He knows you in the most intimate way — the curves of your body, the shape of your hips, the way your hair looks when it's mussed and frizzy at two in the morning after a few rounds between the sheets.

  And yet, he knows absolutely nothing about you. Not your dreams or your hopes or your fears. Not the way you take your coffee or the story of how you got that jagged scar on your left forearm at summer camp when you were eight.

  The man-child lives always in the moment and, for a time, he might manage to convince you that you can live that way, too. Shucking off your Type-A tendencies. Never looking forward or backward. Perpetually pleased by your surroundings.

  Babe, you're so tense, he'll say, rubbing your shoulders. Relax .

  I hate to break this to you, but the man-child is an illusion. He does not exist. He is zero-calorie ice cream. He is a day at the beach without sunburn. He is a weight-loss diet consisting of fresh-baked baguettes and bottomless glasses of red wine.

  Too good to be true.

  We
all realize this, eventually. It's only a matter of when.

  In Harper's case, I hope it's sooner than later. Because if I have to stand up on an altar and hold her damn bridal bouquet as she pledges eternal devotion to Greg, there is a zero percent chance I will not speak now or forever hold my peace.

  For now, however, I will bite back the words I’m dying to say and attempt to be a decent friend.

  “Honey, if he’s cheating on you, he’s the stupidest man who ever lived.” I reach out and place my hand on top of hers. “Don’t worry. I’ll talk to Wyatt. You’ll come to Hawaii with me, get away from here for a bit, clear your head… It’ll be great.”

  “Yeah?” She glances up hopefully. “You really think so?”

  “Yeah. Just you and me, like the good old days. No boys to mess with our minds.”

  “…Except for the movie star you’ll be making out with,” Harper points out, laughing.

  Grayson’s handsome features flash through my mind.

  “That’s just acting,” I say, heart thudding too fast. “Trust me, there’s nothing between us off screen.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Don’t uh huh me. It’s true.”

  “Sure it is,” she agrees, glancing at the magazine stack. The top page shows a close-up — Grayson’s arm tight around my shoulders, my side pressed up against his like we’ve been superglued together. I’m glancing up into his face, looking concerned and maybe, if I’m being honest with myself, a little dazed by his presence.

  “Would you look at that?” Harper smirks knowingly. “Totally platonic, the two of you. Practically related! I, for one, always hold my brothers just like that.”

  “Do shut up.”

  “I’ll shut up if you agree to come running.”

  I pause, contemplate continuing this conversation, and push back my chair.

  “I’ll go get my sneakers.”

  Seven

  “ D on’t you think monogamy is such an antiquated concept?