Page 44 of Iron Heart

“What is it, then?”

“It’s just…” I start, then fall silent. Everything I can think of to say sounds… dumb, I guess. Juvenile. I can’t really put it into words.

Why don’t I want Savannah to know Dante is here? Why don’t I want her to know anything about what just happened? She’s my best friend. She tells me practically everything about Jeremy. God, I even know he’s not circumcised and which one of his balls hangs lower than the other. She’s told me practically everything about every boyfriend she’s ever had since we were fourteen.

I’ve told her stuff, too. Not that my dating history is as long or as interesting as hers. But I’ve held a lot back, to be honest.

Sitting here in bed, looking at Dante, for the first time I start to wonder why that is.

Dante’s still looking at me, his jeans now on and fastened, his dark T-shirt in one hand. With a start, I realize he’s been waiting for me to finish my sentence all this time.

“I guess I don’t really know,” I mumble. My stomach feels weird. I feel defeated.

Dante blows out a breath. “Look. It doesn’t matter.” He pulls his shirt on over his head. “I’ll see you later.”

I’m at a loss for words. Everything I think of to say seems wrong somehow. “Are you coming over to work tomorrow?” I finally manage.

Dante shrugs. “Maybe. I’m pretty close to finishing up the project. I’ll be in touch.”

I start to get out of bed, to walk him out, but he holds up a hand.

“It’s fine. I’ll let myself out.” The hint of a smirk moves across his lips. “I know the way.”

Then, he’s gone, the thud of his heavy boots growing distant down the stairs.

I don’t follow him. Partly because I’m still naked under this sheet, and partly because I still don’t know what to say.

Is he mad? Should he be? He shouldn’t, should he?

I mean, he probably wasn’t going to spend the night anyway.

Oh, my God. Was he going to spend the night?

Did I just kick a hot guy out of my bed who was going to spend the night and give me amazing sex tomorrow morning?

What the hell have I done?

I sink back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. Below me, the front door closes softly. I have no idea what just happened. I may have just ended whatever started with Dante tonight. Assuming there was a “thing” that “started,” that is.

I start to replay our conversation, and the more I think about it, the more I feel like an idiot. God, I said it would be embarrassing for Vannah to see me with my electrician. Even when I said it, I knew that wasn’t really what I meant.

And I’m definitely not embarrassed to be seen with him. He’s easily the hottest man I’ve ever seen in person, much less had sex with.

So, what’s wrong? It’s not Dante. Not at all.

I think it’s me.

It’s not that I’d be embarrassed for Savannah to know that I had a one-night stand. I mean, okay, I’ve never had one before. But she’s had tons of them. I know she wouldn’t judge me for that.

It’s just… Savannah sees her role as the Best Friend Who Looks Out For Me. She checks up on me every morning and every night, for God’s sake. She started doing that from far away, during my senior year in college. I finally managed to convince my parents to let me live on campus for my last two semesters, instead of at my mom’s house. I even managed to get a single room in one of the upperclassmen dorms. It was the first time I had ever lived by myself. I babbled non-stop to Savannah the whole summer before school started about how excited I was.

When September came, I didn’t notice at first how she was texting and calling me more than usual. But then I did notice. And I was touched that she felt like she should be checking up on me. And a little saddened at the same time.

Since I moved to Ironwood, Savannah treats me just like she always has — except for the texts and calls, which I’ve gotten used to. For the most part, my best friend’s worry for me is contained. She checks up on me daily, and I let her. Lather, rinse, repeat.

If I’m honest with myself, I’m afraid to let Savannah know about Dante. Afraid something will change. Afraid she’ll start to worry more. And afraid that if this ends up being more than a one-night stand, my best friend will demand that I tell him about my heart. And when Dante finds out, he’ll walk away. Too afraid to be with the broken girl.

As I lie in bed, I think about what he said, when I asked him why he’d never left Ironwood.

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