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I take a cautious step outside and wait to see if she reacts before I take another. After three creeping steps like that, Matty’s head drops and she groans.
“Why are you being so weird? It’s a balcony not a minefield.”
“Are you sure? I feel like if I put one foot wrong, you’ll blow up and not speak to me for ten years.”
“I don’t know where you could have gotten that ridiculous notion from,” she sing-songs and my nerves are instantly soothed. Feeling a little more balanced, and like myself, I dive in headfirst.
“I should have called you after we fought,” I blurt.
“You couldn’t have, I blocked your number,” she says with a sheepish grimace.
We sigh in unison and look at each other for a long moment. The crashing waves and the strains of music fill the silence that falls between us.
Her expression mirrors everything I’m feeling.
Apology.
Love.
Hope.
“I’m sorry about what I said on the boat, I didn’t mean it. I just had too much to drink.” She finally breaks the quiet.
“Drunk man talk di truth,” I mimic my mother’s lyrical Jamaican accent. She always suppresses it in public and even at home. But when we were younger, before she became the Tina Wilde, she used to speak almost exclusively in her Patois when she scolded us.
“It’s not true. It never has been. You know that. We’ve been mad at each other and we’ve got stuff to work out, but the only thing I feel for you is love. I just didn’t know how to bridge the gap.”
There’s so much advice and common wisdom about what to do when romantic relationships hit road bumps. But you know what’s just as devastating? When a real friendship ends for reasons that make it impossible to repair.
“If I’d been a guy you’d fought with would you have blocked my number?” I ask her, curious more than anything.
“Probably not,” she admits and cringes at her admission.
“Why do we work harder for the men who hurt us than for each other?” I ask in consternation at the truth of it.
“Because a great dick is hard to find,” she deadpans.
I snort a laugh and she gives me a grudging smile. Sharing a laugh with my other best friend, puts a small seal on the crack that the loss of Jack created.
It hurts like hell to know we’ll never laugh together again.
“Unless of course, you happen to stumble across one on a shuttle,” she quips, and my face goes up in flames.
I slap my palms on my cheeks to hide the flush and turn away. “Oh my God, you saw?”
She bursts out in delighted laughter. “Not that I blame you. He was hot. God, I haven’t seen a man like that in person since in a long time.”
“Do you think everyone knew?” I ask, mortified at the thought.
“You were very subtle, but we were roommates in college and…sometimes when you were with Charlie, I’d watch. I know your O’ face,” she says with a sly, but embarrassed smile.
“No, you didn’t,” I gasp and lean away from her, but I’m not upset. In fact, there’s something…intriguing and hot about being watched. But I could never admit that to her.
Marcel is the only man I’ve been with in ten years and sex was never anything to write home about. He’s conservative and anything beyond missionary was sinful. He made me feel dirty the first time I asked him to eat me out. So, my sense of shame about the things I desire is too ingrained for me to share it even with my best friend.
“I’m married.” I remind her and hold up my wedding ring adorned hand, as if she’s the one who needs reminding.
She pushes my hand down and eyes with a probing expression. “I know what the paper you signed says. What does your heart say? There's a difference.”
