Page 13 of Best Friends
Shaking my head, I say, “I can’t.”
She scowls. “You mean you won’t.”
Guilt nudges me because I don’t want to upset her. She’s right. I’ve been a horrible friend lately ghosting her and Malcolm. But I’m doing the best I can. She doesn’t understandhow hard it is for me to be around Malcolm, and I can’t tell her why.
“Don’t be mad at me,” I say. “I’m really exhausted and I’m not sleeping well lately. I can’t handle the idea of making small talk when I’m this tired.”
Her gaze softens. “If you’re not sleeping well then something must be wrong. I wish you’d tell me what’s bothering you.”
“You don’t need to look so worried. I’m fine.” I feel bad lying to her. I know I can trust Cheyenne, but I’m not ready to confess what happened with Malcolm. It’s not really my place to tell her because it’s also Malcolm’s personal business. Besides, Malcolm’s acting like nothing even happened between us. He’s apparently been able to put it all behind him. If she knew that bothered me, she’d pity me. That’s my worst nightmare.
She tucks her blonde hair behind her ear, looking stubborn. “I’m a good problem solver. But I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
I groan. “God, Cheyenne, nothing iswrong. You need to find an alpha or something so you can nag someone else for a change.” I regret the words the second they leave my mouth. She immediately looks hurt and my chest aches with guilt.
Her jaw clenches. “Excuse me for giving a shit about you.” Scowling, she turns and heads into the women’s side of the locker room.
“Cheyenne, wait,” I call, but she ignores me.
Feeling like a total jerk, I head to my locker. I’ll apologize to her later. I’ve been feeling horribly hormonal lately. I shouldn’t have snapped at her like that. She’s just trying to help me,and most normal people want their friends to care about them. Instead, I bite people’s heads off when they show concern. I don’t even know why Cheyenne cares about me.
After a long, hot shower, I change into civilian clothes and head home. I’m tired, grumpy, and starving. I have just enough energy to open a can of vegetable soup. As I stir the bubbling soup, I sip a glass of red wine. My phone vibrates on the island, and I glance over nervously. I’ve ignored Malcolm’s texts and phone calls the last few weeks. I’ll have to respond eventually, but I still don’t know what to say. He knows me too well to hide my feelings forever.
When the doorbell rings, I scowl. The only people who ever drop by my house are Malcolm and Cheyenne, but they’re both at the bar celebrating Sandy’s birthday. With my luck it’s a pack of Jehovah’s Witnesses on my porch, hoping to convert me. I wonder what they’d say if they knew I’d sucked my best friend’s dick. Maybe confessing that to them would get them to leave me alone for good.
I ignore my unwelcome visitor, but they keep ringing the doorbell. Feeling annoyed, I head to the door, glowering. When I open the door I find Malcolm on my doorstep with a six-pack of beer and a pizza box from my favorite pizza place.
“Howdy, C.” He looks uncharacteristically nervous as he grins at me. “I came by to see if you were dead, or just avoiding me.”
The sight of him does weird things to me. My legs feel weak and my gut is instantly swirling with butterflies. He looks so fucking good in jeans that hug his muscular thighs, and a yellow T-shirt that clings to his sinewy chest and biceps. I’m embarrassed that I notice his body, and the cedar scent of him has my pulse skittering.
“What are you doing here?” I ask hoarsely, praying he didn’t notice me checking him out. “I thought you were all celebrating Sandy’s birthday?”
“I dropped by Frankie’s and wished her a happy birthday.” He shrugs. “But now I’m here.”
I frown. “You should have called first.”
He laughs. “Why, so you could pretend you’re not home?”
My face warms because that’s probably something I would do. “I wouldn’t hide from you in my own house,” I lie.
“If you say so.”
We stare at each other in awkward silence for a few moments.
“Can I come in?” His voice is soft and his light blue eyes intense.
“Uh…” I can’t very well say no. Knowing Malcolm, he wouldn’t listen even if I did. I hesitate, then step aside. “How can I say no to Tony’s Pizza and beer?”
He’s been to my place a million times and he’s never shy about making himself at home. Tonight is no exception. He moves past me, straight into the kitchen. He puts the beer in the fridge and sets the pizza on the counter. He glances at my pot of soup, shaking his head.
“What kind of pizza did you bring?” I ask to fill the strained silence.
“Your favorite. Tony’s cheese stuffed crust with pepperoni, mushrooms, and black olives.” He studies me, his expression very serious. “But I don’t want to talk about pizza, C. I want to know why you’re upset and why you’re avoiding me.”
“I’m not avoiding you.”
“Bullshit,” he says gruffly. “You need totalkto me. I’m not okay with how you’ve been acting.”
