It’s me, Remy. I’m the dumbass, it’s me.
She shifts her weight, staring expectantly.
I sigh. “Can I come in?”
“That depends.” Her nails drum on her bicep. “What’s the peace offering?”
My eyes roll to the ceiling, a wave of nostalgia pulling my lips into a reluctant smile. Our first big fight happened at the ripe age of eight. Neither of us remembers how it started, but we’ll never forget how it ended. Andrea caught the flag for our team in PE, meaning she got to pick a sticker. I’d been pouting outside the locker room when she approached and pasted the cartoon cat on my shirt above my heart, saying, “I named her Mitz. She’s a peace offering.”
I lift the bag. “Wine, saltwater taffy and one of those obnoxiously overpriced candles you insist are worth the money.”
A flicker of amusement breaks through the wounded look in her eyes. She toys with her tongue ring.
“You forgot one thing.”
“Oh really?” My brow arches. “And what’s that?”
The corner of her mouth tips up. “Tampons. I’m on my period.”
Sucking my cheek in to hide my laugh, I shake my head. “How could I forget?”
She’s grinning fully now as she snatches my hand.
“Get in here, idiot.”
The inside of her apartment is a conglomerate of crystals, half-melted candles, crispy-leaved plants and stacks of romance novels (smut if I had to guess.) She slings me at the blush-pink velvet couch where I collapse into a pile of throw pillows smelling of sage. She spins on her heel, grabbing her phone and a steaming mug off the cluttered kitchen counter.
An eternity of stifling awkwardness passes.
I can’t take it.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur to her back.
For blaming you. For not seeing from your perspective. For avoiding you.The unspoken words hang between us.
She turns with a sigh. “Don’t be. I should’ve told you.”
My molars ache as I cage the choked emotion behind my teeth. Heavy silence descends, neither of us wanting to dredge up the argument again. When her wet gaze flicks to mine, it’s filled with remorse.
“How is he?”
She doesn’t need to clarify who. I sink deeper into the cushions and dig my knuckles into my eyes.
“He’s…”
Images flash behind my closed lids: Win sobbing in my lap, the scars marking his perfect thighs, his violent switch in demeanor. “My wrists… you restrained me by my wrists.”
With a shudder, I drop my hands.
Andrea squints. “I swear on the deity I no longer believe in that I’ll decapitate the bastard if he’s messing with your head again.”
“No, it’s nothing like that,” I reassure her, twisting the hem of my tee around my fingertip.
Pursing her lips, she tucks her foot under her butt as she settles into the opposite corner of the couch. “Did he…” She mulls it over. “Relapse?”
I shake my head. Her brows furrow in concern.
“What’s going on, Rem?”
