Page 2 of Rising Heat

“I know.”

“No, like—” She points at the screen. “Do you understand how insane this is? You have cried harder over a bad balayage.”

“That woman butchered me.”

“She gave you caramel tiger stripes, Darcy! But that’s beside the point⁠—”

A cabinet slams somewhere in the apartment.

My shoulders jump before I can stop them. Bex catches it, and I watch her face empty of humor so quickly it almost steals my breath.

“Was that him?” she says lower.

My eyes go to the bedroom door.

“Yeah.”

Bex goes the kind of quiet that says, I’m here. Take your time.

I swallow and my tongue feels thick in my mouth.

“Do you need me?” she asks.

Three words. And suddenly all I can think about is the first time Brett met Bex and called her “a lot” in the car afterward. How I laughed like it was funny, because the alternative was sitting in the sharp quietness that followed whenever I pushed back. Bex has never once made me feel like loving her came with a cost.

No sighs or scorekeeping or subtle punishments that stretched for days until I apologized just to make the room breathable again.

My chin wobbles once. I bite down on the inside of my cheek until the sting steadies me.

“No,” I say, voice scraping a little on the way out. “I think…I’m okay.”

The words hang there. True enough.

Rain beats softly at the windows, and I listen to it like I’ve never heard weather before. Outside, a car passes, tires hissing through wet pavement.

Bex studies me.

“You look weird.”

“That feels rude.”

“No, like…” She squints. “You look like someone just set down a suitcase she forgot she was carrying.”

My eyes sting again. I tip my head back against the wall and stare at the crown molding. There’s a hairline crack along the corner that I pointed out once, standing in this exact room in socks and leggings with a coffee in my hand. Brett had sighed without even looking up from his laptop.

“It’s cosmetic, Darce. Stop making problems out of nothing.”

That was the thing, wasn’t it? Nothing was ever big enough to count. The joke that landed a little too sharp. The dinner where he corrected my story in front of his friends and squeezed my knee under the table when I got quiet. My “phases” becoming the punchline anytime I wanted something inconvenient. The slow, steady way I stopped bringing things home to him—excitement, ideas, myself—because the return on that investment had dropped to zero.

Three weeks ago, I came home with a grin I couldn’t hide.

The email was still open on my phone

WE’RE THRILLED TO WORK WITH YOU!

A graphic design contract for a healthcare facility. My biggest freelance client yet. I let myself be excited for exactly four blocks on the drive home before spending the last two tamping it down, reminding myself not to come in too loud in case Brett’s had a long day.

I can’t help it anyway.