Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

“Cesca?”
“No one,” she whispers into the phone. “I didn’t tell anyone.”
Now, I can tell when Cesca’s lying—not that she does it very
often—and she isn’t lying to me now. She honestly didn’t tell anyone
about my comment.
“Are you sure?” I ask, just in case I missed something.
“Yes,” she whispers.
Why is she whispering, I wonder—
“Who you talking to?” a male voice asks in the background.
A male voice I recognize.
“Just, um . . .” Cesca’s voice is muffled, like she’s holding her
hand over the receiver. “. . . a friend.”
“Who?” he repeats.
“A fr—”
“He’s there,” I demand, “isn’t he?”
“What?” She’s talking to me again. “Who?”
Now she’s lying. To me. Her best friend.
“Justin.” I had so hoped it wasn’t true. “Why is he in your room?”
“He, uh . . .” She sounds resigned. “Phoebe, I wanted to tell you.
Really I did.”
“But?” I ask.
“There just never seemed a good time.”
“For what, Cesca?”
“To tell you that Justin and I have been seeing each other.”
My last hope that this was all some big misunderstanding—that
I was totally wrong—vanishes. My best friend and my worst ex are
dating.
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