K. Bromberg - Slow Burn

“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.

“I watched you watch Lex die and know how much you suffered, Haddie. How much you still suffer. I saw you hold Danny while he fell apart and then try to fill in what’s missing for Maddie as best as you could. I saw you internalize it, refuse to deal with it. I watched my best friend lose herself with the worry and the fear and the grief. And that’s more than understandable.” I hear her sniffle, and I feel relieved that she is emotional right now because it’s taking everything I have to hold my tears back. I grit my teeth, and I’m sure she thinks it’s because I’m angry at her, but it’s because I’m trying to prevent the confession about the biopsy on my lips.

“I’ve witnessed you drag your feet to take the first gene test and then refuse to take the second one when it could ease all of this fear inside you. Fear that you have cancer too. Fear that you can’t let anyone love you, fall in love with you—make a life with you—because you’re going to die like Lex did, and you’re going to leave him devastated just like Danny is.”

It’s like hearing the words aloud validate my feelings and also makes my own stubbornness sound ludicrous all at the same time. I bite my bottom lip as she sits patiently, giving me the time to absorb her on-target commentary. She’s right on every level of course, but the catch is that Becks was able to coax out from its hiding place the part of me that was afraid to engage. It just didn’t last long before the fear of my fated future had me wanting to hold back again.

I can’t speak quite yet, so I just nod my head as I brush away the lone tear that’s escaped.

“I think the reason you snuck out was because Becks scares the hell out of you.” Her voice softens with compassion. “He’s making you think and feel things you don’t want to feel, so if you leave, then it just makes it easier for you to ignore something you both sure as hell deserve. He sees the fire in your eyes and wants to play with it … and that? That’s hard to find since most men would consider that a challenge to their manhood.” Rylee reaches out with the bottle of wine and refills my glass as I finally look up to meet her eyes. I nod ever so slightly at her, letting her see the fear in my eyes and telling her she’s hit the nail on the head. “Haddie, you can’t close yourself off forever. A life without passion and love is like slowly freezing to death.”

I exhale a shaky breath, her words like a vice squeezing my heart and an exorcist relieving the acrid fear tearing apart my soul. She has no clue how dead-on she is, how she is speaking to the parts of me drowning in fear right now—and I love her for it, but I also want to forget about it if I can. Not think about any of this for the day. Shove it away and feel normal again.

“Shit, I have passion.” The comment is a knee-jerk reflex on my part, my habit of defensive deflection. I realize my mistake the minute it’s out of my mouth, but she continues before I can correct myself.

“A one-night stand is not passion. It’s a quick fix.”

I laugh nervously, not liking the magnifying glass turned on me. “Well, see, I’m already showing growth because at least Becks wasn’t just a one-night stand. He was a twofer.”

She smiles and just shakes her head. “I’m feeling a nostalgic déjà vu but with roles reversed here,” she says, making me laugh sincerely as I think back to a day when we discussed her and Colton’s one-night stand. The one-night stand that I joked was going to be a thirty-night-stand but that never ended after all.

“God, Ry … I like Becks .” It’s not much but it’s a start.

“He’s a hard guy not to like, but he’s hardly your type….”

“No,” I tell her, not sure if she understands what I’m saying, “I like Becks.” I emphasize the word again in a way that causes her eyes to widen and her mouth to form the shape of an O momentarily before a satisfied smirk ghosts her lips.

And I don’t quite know why I’m telling her this since I’m not going to allow anything further to happen between us. Maybe I’m giving her something since I feel so guilty about neglecting to tell her about the biopsy.