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Her eyes lower, and I want to put my fist through a wall.
“His career is important to him,” she says by way of an answer.
“And you aren’t?” Taking a step away, I run my palm over the back of my neck. “Why didn’t you call me when you were in the hospital? I would’ve been here.”
“I know.” She holds out her arms. “It wasn’t that big of a deal. Honestly. Everything stabilized within a few hours. I was back home before the next morning.”
“But?” I prompt.
She looks at something over my shoulder. “But, a few days later, he came to me and said that he couldn’t go on like this. With his career taking off, he needed someone who could keep up with him. Not hold him back.”
“I’m going to crush his fucking skull.” I start for the door.
“No!” Monique runs to get in between me and the door. “You will not do that! Please. I’ve already had a bad enough day.”
I’m suddenly thrown back to eight years ago. Our junior year in college. The scene is almost the exact same. Monique standing in between me and a door, begging me not to go and beat the shit out of the guy who hurt her.
I didn’t listen last time.
Guilt courses throughout my body. That decision rocked our friendship to its core. I won’t make that mistake again.
Besides, I already clocked him once on the beach before I hopped on a plane. There are other ways to make someone suffer aside from putting my hands on them.
I take another step back with my hands up. The back of my heel hits something.
I turn and see a wadded-up paper on the floor.
“What’s this?” I ask, picking it up and starting to open it.
“Nothing.” She runs over to snatch the paper out of my hand.
I raise my arm out of her reach before she can get it. “You don’t leave random scraps of paper on the floor.” My best friend is meticulously neat and organized.
A by-product of having to keep vigilance over her health for most of her life.
She blows out a frustrated breath and goes to plop down on her sofa. “A rejection letter.”
I unfold the paper and read it. “Baby …” The word slips out of my mouth without my thinking. I know how much starting a gallery means to her. “You know, I—”
“It’s not a big deal.” She takes the paper from my hand as I sit next to her and tosses it behind the TV. “There are other grants, and eventually, I can get a loan.”
I adjust my position so I can look her in the face. For a moment, I simply take her in. The tawny complexion of her skin, eyes that are so big like pools of honey.
Her perfect nose that has a small mark on the right nostril from the nose ring she used to have. I held her hand when she got it pierced during our senior year of high school.
She’s styled her natural curls into crochet locs, which are piled in a high bun at the crown of her head. The hairstyle accentuates the catlike shape of her eyes.
And her smile, marked by full, pink lips.
Her smile isn’t right, though.
Monique reaches her hand to one of my curls. Her fingers begin to twine in my hair, betraying her words.
She plays in my hair when she’s lost in thought or something is wrong.
“Tell me the truth,” I implore.
Her lips press together. “You always know. This is the third rejection I’ve received. At this rate, it’ll be years before I can open my gallery here.”
