Page 25 of Best Man Speaking

“At this point, Hal, I have no idea…” His frustration with me is as clear.

“I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t need your help.”

I don’t want his help.

Mostly, I don’t want to need it.

“It’s not me helping.” His reasonable rebuttal is honestly more than I can handle. I hate that he even wants to help me. It would make my life easier if he didn’t.

“Your indirect assistance counts.”

“Hallie, have you even showered in the last two days?” Marcus asks bluntly.

I take it that my lack of contact with the outside world hasn’t gone unnoticed.

“Did Erica call you?” I ask, rubbing a hand over my overly tired eyes. Emotional turmoil does not make for a relaxing bed buddy.

There is a slight pause before he replies drily, “What do you think?”

“I think if I wanted your help, I’d ask for it.” The nasty words are out of my mouth before I can think twice.

That’s the problem with me and Marcus: everything in me reacts to him before my brain has the chance to think a single thing through.

“Jesus Christ, Hallie. Fine. Take the help. Don’t take the help. I. Do. Not. Care. I do not have time to care. But you listen here. They’re good kids. They’re there to help. When you ask them to leave, don’t you dare make them feel like this is about them. Youmake it clear this doesn’t have anything to do with anything but your own bullshit. You understand me?”

There’s no escaping the firm line of defense he takes to protect the young people he’s sent to help me.

“Yes,” I grate out.

I feel about two inches tall.

There’s a swift pause on the line, and then, “Hallie, why didn’t you call my mobile number?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t have it anymore.”

“It’s in the group chat,” he replies, frustration melting away into droll amusement.

“I didn’t save it.” It’s not a lie. I haven’t saved it.

“Hmm. Well, I just sent you a text.” I lower my phone to look at it.

Unknown:You shouldn’t lie.

“You’re an ass.”

“That might be true, but I’ll pick up if you call, Hallie.”

“Okay,” I answer, my brain running blank on anything else to say. I don’t want to have to call him. The last time I called him, he broke my heart. If he wants to talk, he can call me.

“I guess I won’t be getting a ‘thank you,’ then?”

I don’t bother to reply and instead end the call.

Taking a deep breath, I attempt to calm the whirl of emotion stirring in my chest, rising up to my throat. So maybe going through my past has taken more of a toll than expected. Maybe, just maybe, an extra pair of hands or two would help make this job a little quicker and a little less painful.

What I do want desperately is a hug. You couldn’t pay me enough to utter the words aloud, but I want someone to touch me. To hold me. Physical touch is my number one love language,according to the all-knowing internet, and the one thing I generally go without. A quick hug from a friend or a hookup with a stranger—the only ways I get a fix of physical contact anymore, and I can’t help but wonder which one I’d let myself ask for and receive.

I get up to boil water for the millionth time today, knowing I don’t want a cup of tea but desperately needing the distraction. A distraction from the fact my focus and self-control are completely shot. I move on autopilot, putting my phone on the kitchen counter, its screen remaining mostly dark after finally blocking my dad’s number. Grabbing a mug from one of the navy cabinets, I drop in one of the Lady Grey tea bags I’d brought with me. I never thought I’d admit it, but tea really is soothing, and yes, I now agree it’s sacrilege to make it using a microwave. Convenience be damned.

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