Page 88 of Playing Pretend

“Maybe he’s sick and didn’t want to admit he’s not indestructible.”

He strides to my two-seater sofa and slumps onto the far cushion. “Just tell me what happened and save us both the back and forth. I think I’ve been patient enough while my imagination has run rings around what you two got up to.”

I don’t care about his imagination. Not when the reality is worse.

He kicks his feet onto my coffee table. “Did he hurt you?”

I don’t bother answering. We both know Rome wouldn’t do anything close to what Rett is implying. Not physical pain, anyway. The way he hurt me was with his disregard for our friendship. The way he wanted explicit fun at the expense of our platonic bond.

But I’m the one at fault for playing along.

“Did he do something unforgivably unprofessional? Did he hook up with one of your colleagues? Did he sleep with your boss’s wife?” He volleys questions at me. “Did he encourage your entire office to take an excursion to a sex club…because he’s done that before. I think he felt sorry for Jameson’s dry streak.”

“No.” I cringe. “Leave it alone, okay? It will sort itself out eventually.”

“Eventually isn’t good enough. If the two people I value most are fighting because of a disastrous hookup, I want to know.”

“So he did tell you,” I accuse.Goddamn liar.

“No.” He slides his feet off the table. “You just did.”

I glare.

“Look, Pip, I don’t know the details, and I don’t necessarily need to. But you both have to rectify whatever the hell went down asap.” He stands. “Preferably before he goes on his date with Stacey.”

My lips part without my consent, shock slicing through me.

“Exactly.” He gives a solemn nod through my silence. “That’s how toxic this has become. He’s punishing himself again. Wouldn’t it be better to talk it out before he shoves his dick back into that bear trap?”

The knife twists in my chest, stirring a whirlpool of pain and jealousy.

“I’m sure he’s sorry for whatever he did.” Rett walks for the entry. “Talk to him.” He pulls open the front door and steps onto the stoop. “Figure it out before he gets the clap from that bitch, or I miss another Friday night session. You two are fucking up my weekends.”

“Thanks for the selfless support,” I drawl.

“You’re welcome. I’ll leave your door open so you can get straight in your car.” He strides out of view, doing exactly as promised, the cool night breeze filtering into my apartment.

I stare at the open door, nausea building in my gut.

I don’t want to go. I prefer it here. Alone. Not having to face my mistakes or the man I’m stupidly in love with. But I miss my best friend. I hate being separated from him.

Goddamnit. I stalk for my entry, grab my keys off the hook on the wall, and slam the door behind me. “I despise you, Rett.”

His faint chuckle carries from somewhere inside his house.

I climb in my car, ignoring the anxiety riddling my veins, and drive the ten minutes to Rome’s house… Then circle the block… Then do it again.

I think I complete five laps before I can bring myself to park at his curb and make my way to his front step, my pulse beating painfully when I press the bell.

I watch through the glass paneling beside the door as Rome strides into his foyer in black trousers and a matching long-sleeve button down, his expression deadpan at the sight of me.

There’s no excitement. No playful arrogance. No fun.

He opens the door, his brow furrowed in concern. “What’s wrong?”

Nothello. Notare we drinking tonight. He askswhat’s wrong, as if it’s not a monumental disaster that he doesn’t want to continue our Friday night routine.

I lower my gaze, my attention catching on the red-bottomed pumps haphazardly left on the tile inside the foyer, the shiny black heels sparkling with the reflection of his lights.

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