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“If you want me to stop, just say the word, Frankie.”
Stop being my friend? Stop chasing me? Stop calling me Angel? There were a lot of ways to interpret that. But I didn’t want to parse it out or pull it apart.
Instead, I said, “Can we pretend?”
“Pretend what?”
“That it’s a few weeks ago, and we’re still okay.”
“We can pretend it’s now and we’re okay, too.” The suggestion made me smile a little. “We can pretend it’s now and we’re going to be okay, and even if we’re not, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for you.”
Tears burned in my eyes. “Okay.”
“Then we’re pretending it’s now or then?” Was that a hint of laughter in his voice?
“Now,” I whispered, and he tightened his arms around me. “And we’re going to be okay.”
“You got it.” A sigh escaped alongside the words. Still petting my hair, he began to hum. It was soft at first, but I recognized it. It was one of the songs he recorded for me the night everything went sideways and bad meatloaf were in the house. Songs I’d listened to on repeat until I went to sleep.
Gradually, the adrenaline and the tension drained away as his humming turned into singing. He was on his third song, I thought, when I dropped off. Good to his word, he was still there when I woke up a few hours later.
So was Coop, who leaned in the doorway smiling at us. He mouthed the word ‘coffee’ and motioned with a thumb behind him.
He could look smug since he’d made coffee. Coop helped me shower and then blow dry my hair while Ian showered. We didn’t revisit our middle of the night conversation, but things were a little easier.
It wasn’t until we were getting ready to leave that I found out Ian was riding with Coop and me. And I found out what happened to his bike.
“So what happened to his bike?” Rachel asked me after we found a table at the fish place and settled in—me with my beer-battered fish planks and fries while she had her chicken fingers and equally large stack of fries.
“Apparently, someone slashed the tires, broke the kickstand, and dropped it while also breaking the side mirrors on it.” They hurt his bike. That pissed me off.
“That sucks,” Rachel muttered with a shake of her head. “And sounds expensive to fix.”
I nodded. “It’s at the bike shop now. Ian’s taking it really well, almost philosophical.” He took it better than I had. I was incensed on his behalf. While he hadn’t said anything about why it happened—they were acting like it was just a random act—I had my suspicions. The swift change of subject when I asked about it suggested I was right.
“Could be karma,” Rachel suggested, but at my scowl, she raised both her hands. “Or not.”
“Sorry,” I muttered, and added some malt vinegar to my fish. The nice thing about this stuff was I could eat most of it with my fingers so the broken wrist didn’t get in the way. I used a plastic fork to break up the fish though.
“Hey,” Rachel said, nudging my foot with hers. “It’s fine. I just like to give them shit. Hell, I’m stunned they let you come out to eat with me by yourself. I mean, I did promise to have you home before dark, but still.”
Another difficulty you don’t consider with a broken wrist. The fact you have to put your fork down to flip someone off. “They aren’t that bad.”
“Didn’t say they were bad.” Pointing one of her chicken fingers at me, she added, “You don’t have to be so defensive. You like them. They have been less asshat-ish of late, and they’ve been looking after you. I’m the critical one, remember?”
I met her gaze across the table and sighed. “I didn’t think I was being defensive.” Normally, Rachel’s attitude about the guys made me laugh. “It’s just been…a really long couple of weeks.”
“I can imagine. Or maybe I can’t. But I’m here, if you want to talk or to mock. I’m very good at mocking.”
Despite the hint of bite in her words, all I found was concern in her eyes.
“I haven’t really talked to anyone else…the guys have been really protective, which is nice. Maria’s not avoiding me exactly. I’ve seen her a few times, but she always keeps her distance.” I snorted. “Even Sharon has kept her distance.” I’d run into her a half-dozen times easily, but she changed course.
“Good,” Rachel said. “Maria’s worried about you, too. I don’t talk to the troll queen, but I do talk to Maria. She wants to reach out, but she doesn’t know if you want to hear from her.” She took a bite of her chicken finger as I reached for my soda. “Kind of like Cheryl.” The last bit came out quieter than the rest. “This is me, by the way, not pushing. But Cheryl’s a wreck.”
I paused mid-bite.
“And I got the impression you don’t want to talk to her.” She took another bite of her French fries, but the weight of her stare was a tangible thing. “So, tell me what you need, and I’ll make sure it happens.”
