Page 122 of Seale the Deal

Do you think I’m using him to quell a need or something?

No. She shakes her head immediately. I think people catch feelings and convince themselves they can make the impossible work.

The truck goes quiet as her words hang between us.

Ruger’s never leaving here, she says softly. And you spent the majority of your adult life placating a man and his wants, completely forgetting about your own. I don’t want you to do that again. You’re not the first person I’ve watched do that, and I don’t want to be a casualty in another one of my brother’s failed relationships.

I blink as understanding washes over me.

Ruger’s ex was your friend, I say.

Remi nods. Her name is Aurora, and we were best friends all through high school. Were being the operative word.

Remi—

I can’t let that be us, she says, a fire in her eyes beneath the hurt. I can’t lose another friend because the people I love are pulling in two different directions. I just can’t, Wren. Please.

My chest tightens as I reach across the console and pull Remi into a hug. For a second, she goes rigid, and then she breaks. Her arms come around me, holding me tight, and I feel the dampness of her tears through my shirt.

Hey, I say. You’re not going to lose me.

She doesn’t say anything, only buries her face deeper in my shoulder. I realize this isn’t entirely about me and Ruger, but also that there is still grief from losing a friend she thought would be in her life forever.

She pulls back and wipes at her face. That was embarrassing. She sniffles.

You don’t have to be embarrassed about being human, I say.

Yes I do. She squares her shoulders. I have a reputation to maintain.

I roll my eyes and laugh.

I came by to see if we could grab a coffee, and then I’d bring you to the shop, she says.

I’d love that, I say. Let me grab my stuff.

She nods, and I slip out of the truck.

Inside, Ruger is in the kitchen, scraping his plate into the garbage. My own half-eaten breakfast sits on the counter, but my appetite’s gone.

Everything alright? he asks, leaning against the counter like he’s bracing for impact.

A few hours ago, I was pressed up against him. Hell, he was inside me. That was all that mattered. Now, I can’t stop thinking about what Remi said about him never leaving. I knew that, obviously, and I have always admired his conviction about Alpine Harbor being his place. Now, that simple fact feels like it matters more than it did before. Like Remi confirming what I already knew somehow solidified it in my mind in a way it wasn’t before.

Wren?

I blink and realize he’s still waiting for an answer.

She’s worried, I say.

His jaw tightens. About us?

About what happens next, I answer. About… history repeating itself.

Ruger blows out a breath. So she told you they were friends?

I nod.

The world doesn’t talk enough about the ending of friendships. About how losing a friend can be as every bit as painful as losing a partner, only with far less understanding from the people around you. When a relationship ends, everyone recognizes it as a loss. They expect tears and heartbreak and months of trying to refigure your life. But when a friendship ends, especially if there is no explosion, people seem to assume that the empty space can simply be filled by someone else. As though meaningful friendships are interchangeable. Sitting with Remi this morning, watching her fight tears over a friendship that ended years ago, I realize just how deep that wound still runs. It doesn’t negate what she and I share. It’s just a simple fact that some people leave spaces behind that remain their shape forever.