Page 5 of Maid of Dishonor

This was a dumb idea.

I’m just starting to pull my jersey back up over my shoulders when I hear a sigh. I see Carter out of the corner of my eye, and—

Oh! He’s looking! Be cool. Be cool!I sit up straight so that he can see my torso. His eyes dart from me to the road and back to me again, lingering for a second longer before looking back to the road.

And his expression doesn’t change. Not. One. Bit. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t evenblush.

He is completely reactionless, a statue carved of stone. The Buckingham Palace guards have nothing on him.

“Well?” I say, my voice cracking. I clear my throat quickly to cover it.

“Wellnothing. I looked. You’re a woman. Like I told you, I already knew that. Now put your shirt back on.” His voice is neutral, his eyes on the road. His hands are once again relaxed on the steering wheel.

He’s completely unaffected by me. He’s seen me, and he’s probably already forgotten all about it. And for the first time in years, I find myself wondering: Is it time for me to stop pining for Carter Ellis?

Two

Carter

One dayI’m going to keel over dead, and it’s going to be Sam’s fault. Don’t get me wrong; she’s my friend—heck, she’s mybestfriend, no contest—but every now and then she goes through these phases where she gets insecure about her femininity or something. Next thing I know, she’s doing things like taking her jersey off while I’m trying to pay attention to traffic, or making me smell her hair to see that it smells like peaches or some sort of crap like that. And I have to sit there and pretend it doesn’t make my mouth water, pretend I’m completely immune to things I’m definitely not immune to.

I go out of my way not to think about Sam like that—like she’s an available woman. Ican’tthink about her like that; it would ruin everything. Our friendship is one of the few stable, solid things in my life; no way am I going to mess that up. Plus, Sam’s not a one-night-stand kind of girl. She’s the kind of girl you bring home to meet your parents, and I’m pretty convinced that I don’t ever want that kind of relationship. Not with her; not with anyone. I’ve dated, of course, but women usually want more than I can give. It’s part of the reason my last girlfriend and I ended things—Mariah asked too much.

But love is a good way to destroy your life. My dad is only a shell of the man he was before my mom died. He’s withered away into nothingness. I can’t imagine anyone having that kind of power over me. I can’t imagine being vulnerable like that. And what’s worse, I know that if I ever fell in love, itwouldbe that way—all consuming. I would fall fast and hard and completely. It’s just the way I am. If I’m in, I’mallin.

I have no idea if I could ever have a love like that with Sam, and I don’t want to find out. I’ve been training myself for years to keep my mind from going there, via a rubber band around my wrist that I snap against my skin when I start to feel attracted to her emotionally or physically. But when she gets like this, it’s not easy. Because she’s already my best friend. She’s funny and smart and thoughtful. She shouts at the TV just as much as I do when we watch sports together. What’s not to like? Throw in romantic feelings and you have the beginning of a powder keg just waiting to explode.

So I just don’t let myself think of her as anything other than a friend. It’s for the best.

I’m almost certain.

The car is quiet for the next few minutes as I wind through the string of neighborhoods that lead to my cousin’s house. I glance over at Sam a few times, just to make sure she’s doing all right—I know she’s uncomfortable when she’s not the one behind the wheel—but her gaze is turned out the window, her long, golden hair trailing over her shoulders. Only the clenched hand on her thigh tells me anything is wrong.

“We’re almost there,” I say, keeping my voice steady and calm.

Her fingers relax at my words, and she nods. A sense of satisfaction washes over me—pride that I’m able to help her deal with her demons. And it’s yet another reaffirmation that risking the most important person in my life for a romance would be categorically stupid.

We remain silent until we pull into Maya’s driveway. The house is a small, one-story home that she inherited when her dad—my father’s brother—passed of cancer; her mom had been gone a long time by then, leaving the family and going back to her home in the Philippines when Maya was still just a toddler. The home is all red brick with a violently blue front door, which suits Maya perfectly. She’s a unique person, and she makes no excuses. It gets her in trouble sometimes, but I love that she’s so unapologetically herself.

I keep my gaze away from Sam as I follow her up the driveway and to the sidewalk. I’m not too proud to admit that her hair has always done weird things to my insides, even when it’s messy. And it would be stupid to claim she’s not beautiful; she is, without a doubt. Long, blonde hair; golden skin; dimples and a smile full of sunshine. Those are things I can’t avoid noticing. So I just do my best not to dwell on them.

I give my rubber band a quick snap and then turn my gaze away from her. It’s hard to avoid seeing what’s literally two feet in front of your face, but I manage by looking pointedly at the plants lining the walkway, studying them as though I’m actually interested in all these different kinds of bushes. This works well until I almost poke my eye out on an overhanging tree branch—after that I suck it up and keep my eyes forward for the remaining two seconds of walking.

Upon reaching the porch and knocking on the aforementioned very blue door, Sam and I wait for longer than I expect. Sam does her usual shuffling back and forth—the woman can never stand still—until finally the door creaks open.

“Hi,” Maya greets us, and my eyes widen.

She looks horrible. I’m not the most observant guy, but even I can tell something’s wrong. Her thick, dark hair falls lank and greasy around her face, which looks clammy and peaky, and she’s sort of hunched over rather than standing up straight. She’s also got on leggings, which wouldn’t be weird on anyone else, but Maya practically lives in long, flowy skirts. Boho, I think Sam called her style once.

“Hey,” I finally get out. What the heck is going on here? She looks…

Sick. She looks sick. Just like her dad did when his cancer relapsed. Frail, feeble. Drained of energy. And even though I’m not an alternative medicine guy, I find myself glancing at her neck to see if she’s got on the crystal necklace she wears—a chain with a two-inch-long pendant of clear quartz, which she says is a natural healer. I find strange comfort in seeing it tucked beneath the neckline of her shirt.

That comfort is quickly eclipsed by the rest of her appearance, though. I cast a glance at Sam, who looks just as worried as I feel, before following Maya into the house and to the living room.

When Maya all but collapses on the sofa, I suddenly know, with blinding certainty, what’s about to happen. She’s going to tell us that she’s sick. That the same cancer that took my uncle has come for her—

“So…I’m pregnant.”

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