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“I was worried about you. You weren’t answering my messages, you didn’t meet me for lunch, and you’ve not been at work.”
“You called my office?” Her irritation seems to grow.
“I didn’t say who I was,” I assure her, thinking maybe she’s worried about office gossip. I look over her shoulder to her house, wondering why she doesn’t seem as twitchy as I would expect. “I was told your leave wasn’t planned.”
“You have no right to pry like that.”
I don’t? I thought I was her best friend? “Then you should let me know you’re okay,” I retort, my voice raised. Yet Lo still doesn’t become concerned by it, and I look back to her house again. “Aren’t you worried your husband will come outside to find you?”
“No,” she answers short and curtly, glancing away from me.
“He’s out?”
“No.”
I frown, confusion engulfing me. “You’re not worried he’ll see me?”
She levels a fixed stare on me, her neck lengthening, her shoulders straightening. I’ve never seen this resolute persona in Lo. She looks angry but calm. “He won’t see you.”
My eyebrows pinch. I’m totally lost. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because to see you, he needs to look out of the window. To look out of the window, he would need to walk to get there.”
My frown deepens, my head trying to clue me in on what I’m hearing.
Her jaw tightens. “He’s dying, Luke.”
Something slams into my body, jolting it violently. Shock? “What?” I whisper, searching her face for more. Her declaration is so matter-of-fact, so full of acceptance.
“My husband is dying.”
My stomach flips, every muscle in my body suddenly weighing me down, ensuring I can’t move. I’m stunned, my body useless, but my brain is reeling off every second I’ve spent with Lo since we met. “Dying,” I murmur, my eyes plummeting from her expressionless face to my boots. Her husband is dying? My insides twist and turn, nausea taking hold. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I all but murmur, looking up at her. All this time we’ve spent together. I could have been helping her more than I know I have. Should have been.
“Because it felt too good having one person in this world who didn’t look at me like they felt sorry for me. Because when we are together, you take my mind off the horrors of my life with your silliness. Because you talk to me like a normal person, not like a woman who is going through hell.”
Panic claims me. “I can still do that,” I tell her. I want to do that. Now more than ever.
“I can’t see you anymore, Luke.”
I look up, and I see it on her face. Guilt. For having me in her life. For smiling. For being distracted from her nightmares. God, she has nothing to feel guilty about. “Lo, I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t.” She looks away. “It’s not your fault, it’s mine. I shouldn’t have encouraged our friendship.”
“Why?”
Her eyes dart to mine. “Because it’s inappropriate.”
“Because I’m a man?” That’s crazy.
“No, because my husband is dying, and my place is at home—”
“Dying with him,” I say without thinking, making her head recoil sharply. She really did want me to run her down that night. She wanted out of this life. I feel so sick. “Lo”—I step forward, stopping when she steps back, wary— “I just want to be your friend.”
Her bottom lip trembles, her arms holding her body tightly around her waist. “You can’t be, Luke.”
I go to argue, to tell her she’s wrong, but she’s already running back to her house, and when she gets inside, she shuts the door, not looking back. I stand motionless for an eternity, staring at her front door, shocked to my core. Her husband is dying. And I am a stupid, selfish idiot. What have I done? I’ve robbed myself of a friend, but worse of all, I’ve stolen one from Lo with my fucking idiocy. I just stand there, flummoxed, motionless on the street for an age, maybe hoping she’ll run back out and tell me she does need me. That she wants me to ease her suffering. That she can’t be without my silliness. That she still wants her best friend.
But she doesn’t.
Guilt.
And I’m broken.
I blindly turn toward my car, my head ringing. How could I have got it so wrong? I drop into my seat, shut the door, and stare forward in the blackness, unable to process any of the last five minutes. Steve is jumping all over me, but I can barely register his excitement.
I’m absolutely stumped. Stumped for thoughts and stumped for words. I never in a million years imagined this is what I’d find when I came here tonight. I feel like I’ve had my guts ripped out.
He’s dying. “Jesus,” I breathe, absentmindedly starting my car.
I drive home, not remembering one second of the journey. I let myself in, take Steve out to the garden, throw my keys on the side, and head straight for my bar. The whiskey I pour is large, my first swig long, and my arse hits the leather of the bar stool with a thud. Dying. Amid the haze of tragic revelations, I manage to conclude only one thing. My secret wish to get Lo away from her misery is impossible. There is no escape. I can’t help her. And now I’ve lost my best friend. My thought process seems selfish to an extent, but more tragic than the comprehension of my loss is the comprehension of Lo’s situation. Her sadness makes sense. Her money struggles makes sense. Even my certainty that she wanted me to run her down that night makes sense. I’ve been more of a distraction than I ever imagined. The comfort she’s taken from me, that I’ve willingly offered and given, has been a lifeline for her. And now she’s giving that up, going back to being alone.
