And I wish I could act like a child. I wish I could throw a tantrum and fight and rage and not care what people think or understand the consequences.

But I’m not.

And I do.

And fuck if I want to get a firsthand reminder of just how devastating life can be.



Chapter 16

The jerk of Rylee’s head up from the vegetables she’s chopping to meet my gaze is almost comical. God, I’m glad she’s home. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed her. How much I needed to look at her and not see fear mixed with pity looking back at me like I did at my parents’ house.

I meet her gaze—my closest friend—and feel the pointed sword of guilt pressing against my throat as I carry on like everything was perfectly fine while she was away on her honeymoon. Like the doctor didn’t call and say she was ordering more extensive pathology tests on the mass she’d removed before making any conclusive decisions. Or how she was skirting around using the word diagnosis … because diagnosis is the word they use when they tell you it’s cancer. I’ve never lied to Rylee, and yet here I am, the smile I have fraudulently plastered on my face feeling more and more natural as I fall under the comfort of our easy rapport.

And I feel like I’m two inches tall, strong-arming the bucket brimming with indecision from tipping over to the point where I tell her everything.

But I don’t. She’s gone through so much in the last few years, and I don’t want to worry her unnecessarily. Plus, it’s the first time I’ve seen her since she got home from her honeymoon, and I’ve missed her like crazy. I want to hear all about how sickeningly happy she is because I know her happiness will ease the weight of the unknown that I carry with me as a constant right now. The goddamn cloud trying to block out my sun.

Add to that I have the little issue of having to explain why my only question in our first conversation since she’s returned was if Becks was going to attend the little “we’re home” barbecue she was throwing. I wish I could kick myself in the ass for the knee-jerk reaction that’s resulted in my preoccupation to avoid Rylee’s assessing eyes. I’ve been so diligent, changing the subject anytime it circles back around to me that I realize I’ve missed out on hearing the details of their honeymoon highlights.

And of course my mind is so scattered that she catches me off guard. By fault of my distraction, I accidentally acknowledge that Becks and I did in fact have sex on their wedding night and then maybe, possibly one other time. It’s a muttered point given under the duress of a knife-wielding best friend, who’s chopping vegetables and waving said knife at me while she talks—but she hears my admission nonetheless.

“So you look nice and tan and overly sexed,” I say over the rim of my glass of wine.

“Whoa! Hold it, sister!” she demands, waving the weapon in her hand in my direction. “You think you can hit me with all of this …” She’s so flustered by my confession that she can’t find the words to continue, so she keeps jabbing the air with her knife toward me until I start laughing. “It’s not funny! I haven’t seen you in weeks—”

“I know. It’s so great to see you so relaxed. So give me all the details … ‘sex on a secluded beach’ type of details—”

“Don’t you dare change the topic. Sit,” she orders as she takes a sip of her merlot and stares me down until I oblige. “First, you tell me that you guys hooked up on our wedding night, which I thought a possibility when Becks had your phone … but then you did it again … AND you snuck out before he woke up?”

I bite my bottom lip and nod my head subtly, guilt still slicing through me like a razor blade at my cowardice—the only part I feared admitting to Ry because even I know it was wrong. Not just the leaving but the subsequent refusal to speak to him other than my inadequate text telling him I was wrong in thinking I could have any type of relationship with him.

No further explanation. Nothing. I was just trying to make it easier all around for him and for me. For the changes I fear are knocking on my welcome mat that are far from welcome.

The sad fact is even I didn’t believe my own lies this time.

“Why?” She finally sets the knife down and wipes her hands off on the dish towel before placing them on the kitchen counter to brace herself. Violet eyes meet mine, and fuck if I don’t love and hate this new self-assurance that Colton has brought out in my oldest friend. I really would prefer her not to have it focused on me right at this moment though.

I sigh as I break my gaze from hers. “Because I’m trying to get my shit together.”

She laughs out low and rich, and despite my thoughts, the sound brings a smile to my lips.

“What?”

“I do believe that getting someone’s shit together led to my current state,” she teases as she holds up her hand where her wedding ring reflects the light and sends a blizzard of prisms against the walls of the kitchen. I laugh with her now that I finally get what she’s saying and the irony in my own comment. How I once told Colton when they first started dating that he needed to get his shit together and only then would he be worthy of my friend.

“So … six months from now should I be expecting one of these on your finger?”

I cough on my sip of wine. “Are you certifiably crazy, Ry? After everything …” I stop myself from confessing all of the emotions I’ve hidden. Everything I’ve tried to keep inside since Lex’s death so that I could be a good friend for Rylee, so that I could help her plan her wedding without the oppressive weight of grief being a downer. And I know she knew what I was doing, the distraction techniques, the false fronts—all of it—but she let me think I was fooling her because she knew that was what I needed at the time. She knew that was what was best for me. And now I fear that she’s done being patient, and she’s going to tell me exactly what I need to hear. Except I’m not ready—and although there are things she doesn’t even know the whole truth about, I know she’ll be correct in her assessment nonetheless. “I haven’t even spoken to him since.”

“He didn’t call you?” Bemusement laces her question.

“Of course he did. Countless times. I just chose not to answer.”

She chuckles with condescension. “How very mature of you.”

And now she’s pulling the gloves off to force me to deal with my own shit. Take no prisoners and all that. I definitely need another bottle of wine here. I reach for it without a second thought, as the soft tug of my stitches hitting my clothes with the movement makes its presence known—the ever-constant reminder of my secret, my fear, my possible future.

Tell her. My mind screams the thought, knowing I could use her strength, but my heart can’t bring her down, make her worry unnecessarily when I’ve never seen her this happy.

I’ll tell her the minute I know something. I make the promise to myself to justify lying to my best friend, but it does nothing to ease the guilt.

She angles her head to the side, and at first I fear she’s caught my grimace or my sudden silence. Her gaze dares me to look away, taunts me to try to hide everything swimming in my eyes.

And I cave with eyes averted and focus on my fingers playing idly with the stem of my wineglass. “Well, you know, while you were gone, I came up with a new motto,” I say in a lame attempt at diversion “… ‘less stress, more sex.’”

“New motto, huh?” she says, rolling her eyes, “because I thought your motto was “Whenever I don’t want to deal with Lexi’s death, I go have meaningless sex to not think about it.’ Slut glut, I believe is my term for it.” She raises her eyebrows at me as she finishes throwing her cards on the table so I’m forced to show my hand.

And hell if her words don’t sting just as smartly as Becks’s did the other night during our argument. The difference is Becks is a guy and like any male will say things to beat his chest and assert his testosterone whereas Ry’s not competing for me. She’s just being observant—truthful—and I hate like hell that she’s right as rain.

Shame fills me, but I hold her gaze in silence for a few more moments. I can tell she already feels guilty for calling me on the carpet, but I love her even more for not backing down, for telling me what I need to hear. “Talk to me, Had. Please talk to me.”

“Slut glut? Really?” I ask, although I deserve the shrug of the shoulders she gives me, which says, If the shoe fits … And hell, it does fit, but at least it’s a really cute pair of four-inch peep-toe stilettos that scream, Come fuck me. I keep the thought to myself, knowing Ry won’t appreciate my humor if I say that aloud.

I sigh in resignation before glancing down to watch my finger run around the rim of my glass while I figure out what to say. “The first time … your wedding night, I kind of didn’t play fair. Seduced him when he was trying to keep his distance…. Then we agreed to sex without strings.” I fall silent as I think about everything that I’ve already gone over a million times before, and whether I would change it—keep the zipper up and let him walk to his room alone.

I don’t think I would. And that in itself scares me.

“And the second …,” she prompts, but I just sit there in silence, unable to lift my eyes to meet hers, so she continues. “Look, I love you. You’re the sister I never had, so I’m going to say it, and you tell me when I veer off course.” I nod my head, close my eyes, and take in a deep breath as I prepare for her psychoanalysis, which I’m sure will be much more real than I actually want to hear but probably need to nonetheless.