It’s a double-edged sword, that sentence. On one hand, I am so horribly embarrassed that while I’ve been over here daydreaming about kissing him and holding his hand and dancing in the moonlight by the water, he’s been thinking what a great friend I am. On the other hand, I’m his best friend. And what a privilege it is to be called Fletcher Harding’s anything. Best friend. What an unworthy title for a woman who has no clue who she even is, for someone who had to research what her favorite color was before a date. For someone who’s loud and too much and always over the top and—
