Page 79 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

“She also told me not to spiral.”

“That was a mistake.”

“It was practically an engraved invitation.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For Charlie?”

“For all of it.” The words settle between us. I want to tell her that I hated lying. That every fake client emergency felt worse because I knew she would believe me. That I have spent five years giving the person I trust most explanations designed to keep her from seeing my life clearly. But Abraham warned me not to turn my pain into something Reese has to carry. So, I don’t tell her how difficult it has been for me. Not yet.

“When did you get permission?” she asks.

“Yesterday.”

“And that’s what tonight was supposed to be.”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t going to tell me you found someone.”

“No.”

Relief crosses her face again, softer this time.

Then she folds her arms. “Why now?”

My carefully prepared answer returns. Not the words. The truth beneath them. Because I love you. Because I can’t ask you to build a life with me while hiding the work that shapes half of mine. Because I’ve spent five years knowing you’re the person I want, all while pretending friendship is enough. I can’t say any of that tonight. “Because keeping you outside this part of my life stopped being something I could live with.”

Her eyes meet mine.

“You’re too important to me,” I continue. “I didn’t want any future version of our friendship built around me continuing to lie about this.” Friendship. The word tastes so inadequate. It’s also the only word I’m allowed to ask her to process tonight.

She starts pacing again. “You’re in danger.”

“Sometimes.”

Her head snaps toward me. “You said that like someone who means frequently.”

“There are risks.”

“You got a shoulder injury because you slipped while moving office furniture.”

“That was a cover story.”

“What actually happened?”

I hesitate, sorting through what I’m permitted to disclose. “I was in a vehicle that rolled during an extraction.”

Her mouth falls open.

“That may not have been the best first example,” I admit.

“How many times have you nearly died and told me you had a client meeting?”

I don’t answer quickly enough. Partly because I haven’t been keeping track, and partly because I don’t think it would be helpful for her to know.

“Miles.”