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Not wanting to have to defend this to her, I let out a sigh and focus on her. “How was Tom?”
She rolls her eyes, clearly seeing my question for what it is; a horrible way of changing the topic. I don’t want to explain how when I’m finally physical with him, I don’t want him mentally having a threesome with his dead wife and me. “He’s fine,” she grunts.
“That’s all you have to say about it? I thought you had a strict no-sleepover rule.”
“We do,” she grumbles under her breath before lifting her mug to her lips and taking a long, drawn-out sip, averting her stare.
“What’s going on, Mel?” I say, fixing her with a hard stare. After all, if she can demand answers out of me, then I’ll damn well do the same to her.
“Nothing. It’s just casual sex,” she says.
I let out a huff as I lean forward and place my coffee mug on the table so I can make a show of crossing my arms. “Casual sex is not supposed to be every damn night. That’s why it’s called casual. Besides, Sean and I have been doing whatever this is for two months now, which means you’ve been dancing around Tom for two months as well.”
Mel lets out a sigh before glancing up at me, and when her bottom lip starts to wobble and she starts blinking back tears, horror bursts through my chest. Mel is the strongest woman I know. Nothing breaks her.
“What the hell?” I panic, wide-eyed. “What happened?”
“I . . . I think I like him,” she blurts out.
Sweet baby Jesus. What has Tom done to my best friend?
I fall into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, gripping my stomach when it starts to hurt. “Holy shit, Mel,” I say, gasping for breath. “That’s fucking hilarious.”
“Shut up,” she whines. “I don’t know what to do.”
Somehow managing to pull myself together, I give her a pointed stare, hoping like fuck she decides to take me seriously. “You stop being such a little bitch about it and man up. Tell him how you feel and see how it goes. What do you have to lose?”
“My dignity,” she scoffs. “Tom isn’t like Sean. He’s not going to swoon and give me everything I’ve ever wanted in life. He’s the more dickish version of me. He’s gonna freak out and run for the hills. I can’t tell him this.”
“I think you’re not giving him enough credit,” I tell her. “If Tom is so much like you, then why is he having sleepovers with you? It’s a two-way street, and he’s giving just as much as he’s taking. He likes you, Mel. And like you, he’s probably too scared to come out and say it.”
She silently leans back into the couch and puts her feet up on the coffee table as she continues to pout, and realizing she’s putting an end to the conversation, I turn on the TV and finish off my coffee while Mel eventually gets up and takes a shower.
Twenty minutes later, she returns, dressed and ready for work, making me more jealous than I’ve ever been in my life. I look over at her and can’t help but sigh as I take her in. “You’re so weird,” she grunts before quickly pouring a bowl of cereal and annihilating it.
“Huh? Why?”
“Because you must be the only person I know who doesn’t enjoy having paid time off work,” she explains.
“I can’t help it,” I tell her, feeling like I’m going to burst if I get holed up in this apartment for much longer. “I love my job. I mean, who else can say they shove their hands up pussies all day long and pull out slimy little humans?”
“Good point,” she grunts, absolutely disgusted. “How much longer now?”
“I’m good to go back on Monday,” I tell her. “I saw Dr. Monroe yesterday, and he signed off on everything as long as I promised to see a therapist every now and then to check in with my mental health.”
Mel nods and blows out her cheeks. “It’s really been six weeks already?” she asks.
“Already? It feels like I’ve been cooped up in this little apartment for months.”
“Hey,” she scolds. “Don’t knock the apartment.”
“Who cares about the apartment? I get to go back to work,” I grin.
Mel rolls her eyes and gets up to wash her bowl, grabbing my empty coffee mug in the process. She grabs her bag off the entryway table before picking up the mail and skimming through it. “Hey,” she says with a frown as she walks toward me and hands me an envelope. “There’s a letter for each of us from the hospital.”
My brows furrow as I take mine from her and glance over the envelope, and the longer the paper rests in my hands, the heavier the dread becomes in my stomach. “It’ll be about the shooting,” I tell her as we start ripping into them.
