Stephen doesn’t corner me at work, and it’s another day I manage to scrape my way through without losing my job. I slot my keys into the car ignition and just . . . stop.
My shoulders slump, and this weight of loss pressing down on me reminds me of the grief of losing my mother, which is ridiculous. Ryker and Liam aren’t dead, but they’re acting as if I am.
I wanted an apology, at the very least an explanation, but now I just want my best friends back. My phone buzzes in my pocket with a phantom vibration, but it’s not them, it’s no one.
I tap out a text to Ryker before I can change my mind.
Hey, it’s been a while. Fancy a drink Saturday?
It’s casual, maybe too casual considering there’s something going on between us, but I want to see them. I need to understand why two of the most important people in my life don’t want to be at my wedding.
I’d love to, babe, but I’ll be in Tenerife. We’ll catch up soon x
My traitorous body warms at the sight of “babe” in Ryker’s message before cooling to an arctic wind at the rest. We may not be speaking right now, but I’ve got Ryker on socials. Everyweekend he flies abroad and is photographed on beaches, in bars, and in clubs with swarms of attractive guys around him. It’s never bothered me before. Ryker is a charmer, always has been, but he always made time for me.
Even the “we’ll catch up soon” part of the message sets my teeth on edge. There’s no date or time, it’s just a generic thing people say when they have no intention of following through with a suggestion. Only the “babe” gives me the comforting glow of familiarity, and I hate Ryker for giving me that piece of hope only to destroy it with the rest.
I bite my lip before tapping out another message.
What about you, Liam?
Ryker reads it, Liam predictably doesn’t. A few minutes pass of me and Ryker both online but not communicating, then he responds on Liam’s behalf.
I think he’s got plans this weekend x
Of course . . .plans. That pendulum inside me that swings between longing and hate outdoes itself with a boost of fury. I put my phone away before I message them something I’ll end up regretting and drive home.
When I stop outside my place, I frown at the unknown car parked in my usual spot. It’s a black Ford Focus with a dented bumper. We live in a small terrace house with one bedroom. Keegan has drawn the curtains, but the purple fabric glows with soft light from the kitchen. It’s almost nine, and my stomach gurgles at the thought of food while my throat twitches with the envisioned pain of throwing it up again. But the doctor prescribed me some antacids to help with my reflux and digestive issues, and I’ve been better the past few days, but after messaging Ryker, it feels like I could be back to day one of the sickness scale. I pop two prescription pills into my mouth before going inside.
Keegan flings herself at me while I’m hanging my jacket up in the hallway. She’s beaming ear to ear, and it’s enough to lift my bad mood. I breath her in, and her sweet perfume and feminine scent sooth my frazzled nerves. When she leans back, I notice her red lipstick, her winged eyeliner, and her blonde hair secured with a claw clip. She’s dressed for a night out, but as far as I know she hasn’t made any plans.
“You’re looking hot,” I tell her, which is as eloquent as I get. But she is, hot enough that I’ve forgotten all about dinner and just want dessert.
Keegan winks. “You’re not looking so bad yourself.”
Which is a lie, but I’ll play along to get to the bedroom. With the stress, exhaustion, and lack of sleep, I hope I can perform. She continues to beam up at me, eyes twinkling like they’re hiding a secret.
“What’s got you so happy?” I ask. She’s wearing my favourite top with the sweetheart neckline that shows off her cleavage. I’ve joked with her that she’s only allowed to wear it in our house as it’s too sexy to wear outside, and as far as I know, she hasn’t worn it anywhere else. It’s for my eyes only and usually indicates a good night to come.
Her expression turns coy, and she swerves a kiss from me. “I’ve got a surprise for you . . .”
“Please say it’s a Chinese takeaway.”
She swats me on the nose. “I cooked, actually.”
“Is that the surprise?”
“Nope.” She takes my hand, and hesitates on the cusp of the doorway before leading me into our living space. It’s all open plan, with matching appliances from the TV stand to the kettle. The pops of colour are purple and come from the curtains, scatter cushions, and the rug on the floor. Everything else is a glossy black and modern. I’m admiring Keegan’s arse in hertight blue jeans and at first don’t notice, but when I do, reality shifts to some alternative plane of existence.
My breath snags in my throat, and I untangle my fingers from Keegan so fast my nail catches her skin.
“Ow, Fred—”
Keegan shakes her hand, then sticks the injured finger into her mouth. It leaves her mouth again with a pop as she notices the way we’re staring at each other—or the way I’m staring athim. There’s something satisfied in his expression as the life drains from my face. Can he see it? Can he see how badly he affects me after all this time? Of course he can. My rasping breath is too loud in my ears. If either he or Keegan speaks, I don’t hear it under the white noise of my wavering consciousness. This is my home, my safe space, andhe’shere.
He’s sitting onmychair at the table. We only have a small place, and our table only has two chairs, but Keegan’s placed a cushion on top of the clothes hamper for that to be used as a third seat.
“How did you get in?” I ask.
