“Maybe.”
I close my eyes. “I am starting to despise that word.”
“Me too.”
“She thinks you’re keeping me from her.”
“Maybe she does.”
“Cole.”
“Maybe she wantsyouto think that.”
My eyes open. The crack in the foundation of my oldest friendship yawns a little wider, a little darker.
I want to defend Vanessa. I want to snatch the phone, type back, tell her I am fine, tell her Cole is not making me do anything, tell her she is still my person and I am sorry for scaring her.
I also want to throw the phone into the marsh and never see another screen again.
Both things feel true. That is the part that scares me.
“I don’t know what to do,” I say.
The confession comes out bare.
Cole lowers the phone. “Then do nothing for a minute.”
“That’s your advice?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were action-man.”
“I am when action helps.”
“And when it doesn’t?”
“Then I shut up and hold position.”
Something inside me gives a painful little laugh. Hold position. Of course that is his version of tenderness. Yet somehow, it works.
I sit on the edge of the bed because my legs finally insist. Cole does not sit beside me. He crouches in front of me instead, leaving space, keeping his eyes level with mine.
“If you want to message her,” he says, “I won’t stop you.”
I look at him sharply.
“I’ll tell you what the risks are,” he continues. “I’ll ask you not to give details. I’ll stay close enough to help if you need me. But I won’t take the choice away from you.”
My throat burns.
“That’s what she thinks you’re doing.”
“I know.”
“And you’re not.”
“No.”
