Page 6 of Dancing in the Dark

“Why? What happened?” I push up straight and snatch the television remote. Wine spills onto my shirt, soaking through and chilling my chest, but I change channels and stop on helicopter footage of the massive bridge splitting our city in half and the breaking news banner scrolling across the screen.

“If you squint your eyes, you can see our favorite detectives right there on the bridge,” Aubree snickers. “They’re not happy about it, but they caught a case, and by the looks of things, their killer was too slow to run away, or too stupid to stay away, because Tiffany Hewitt’s saying how they’ve already made an arrest.”

I set my wine down and perch on the edge of my couch. Because there he is. Charlie Fletcher, all six feet and a couple of inches of what I suspect was probably a guy headed toward some kind of athletic future back in high school, but for reasons known only to him, he turned the other way and became a cop.

Specifically, a homicide detective.

Where Archer Malone is slightly broader and a single inch taller than his partner, Charlie looks like he’d win a five-mile run if they decided to compete.

Just like his daughter, he has long legs, long arms, dark hair, and perfect honeycomb-colored eyes.

Damn the Fletchers and their ability to steal my heart, even against my wishes.

“He’s there,” Aubree murmurs. “And he’s not coming home for hours.”

I hate how hope blooms in my chest. How sadness follows right after, because I wish running into him was an event that made me feel good. “If he’s caught his bad guy already, that means he’ll be done soon, no?”

“Unlikely. Media vans are at both ends of the bridge, the city has ground to a standstill, and the bad guy has a bleeding nose. Which implies things got physical. Which,” she adds, entirely too cheery, “means there’ll be hella paperwork to fill out and statements to file. Plus, Fletch already texted Cato and said he wouldn’t be home for hours. He asked if he minded sticking around with Mia and putting her to bed for him. So…”

“I’m on my way.” I jump up and skip-hop-stumble my way around my coffee table, plucking the pedicure separators from between my toes as I go. “Thanks for calling, Aubs. I get that things are messy and weird, and that you and Charlie have been really good friends for a really long time, which means your loyalties⁠—”

Her noisy scoff ricochets through the line, even as I skid into my bathroom, set my phone down, and snatch up a washcloth so I can wipe the goop off my face.

“My loyalties are with my friends and their happiness. Fletch’s. Yours. Mia’s, most of all. She misses you, and you’re the one person on the planet she wants most of all.”

“You’re the b⁠—”

“I mean, besides Cato,” she snickers. “She wants him the most, too. And Fletch. And Uncle Arch. And sometimes, when I’m lucky, she wants me too.”

“You can stop saying names now.” I clear the mask from my face, carefully wiping beneath my eyes and praying the redness leaves my skin before I arrive at an apartment bustling with people. “I’m number six or seven on her list of priorities. It’s cool, Aubs. You don’t have to rub it in.”

“You’re not number six. You’re number one. But it’s a three-way tie with Cato and Fletch. Are you leaving now?”

“Yeah. Just using the bathroom, then I’ll get dressed and head out. Be there in fifteen minutes.”

“You want me to order the salad with stale bread?” she snickers.

“They’re called croutons, you simpleton. But yes.” I scan my face and ensure I got everything, then tossing the cloth, I dry my hands and snatch up my phone again. “I want the salad with stale bread. Does Mia know I’m coming?”

“Not yet. You want me to tell her, or do you want it to be a surprise?”

“Surprise.” I speed across the hall and toss my phone onto my bed. Whipping the simple white tank over my head, I drop it onto the floor and study myself in my mirror, bra-less and clinging to my teenage rebellion as my belly piercing sparkles in the late afternoon light. Above that, my twenties rebellion tattoos snake their way around my hip. And then, further down, a scar that wasn’t a rebellion at all.

Merely a tragedy.

I sling my closet open and select a dress that covers it all up. Because Mia is five years old and probably shouldn’t idolize rebellions quite so soon.

“I’m in my room now. Getting dressed. Was there something else you wanted to talk about, or do you just enjoy listening to me change?”

“Wanted to tell you about my birthday dinner, too. A week from tonight, at the bar. I expect you to be there.”

I bundle the fabric of my dress and drag it over my head. “I assume Charlie will be there?”

“He sure will be. And yet,” she growls, “I’m gonna be pissed if you use that as an excuse to bail.”

“Aubree—”

“Don’t break up the band, Fifi! He screwed up, but he didn’t cheat on you. He didn’t lie, or do anything intentionally or maliciously. His only crime was doing his job and forgetting to communicate these things with you. I’m not saying he doesn’t suck, or that you don’t have the right to be cranky. I’m not even saying he deserves get out of jail free cards every time his brain stops working. I just—” Something crashes and shatters on her end of the line, then Mia’s squeal of delight follows right after. “It’s my birthday. For that reason, I’m asking you to tolerate being in the same place at the same time and not turn it into a whole thing.”