Page 109 of Keeping Kasey
Dark alleys.
Hooded figures.
Burning buildings.
Muffled cries.
Pain.
So much pain.
“Katie? Are you okay?”
Mark’s voice cuts through the images, and I blink my vision clear.
“Yeah,” I say, pushing my half-eaten dinner away. “I’m fine. Just had a long day, and I think I’m all peopled out right now.”
He gives me a knowing look. “You take introversion to a new level.”
“Not all of us grew up with twelve siblings and no privacy.”
Mark’s eyes light up. “Right, because you have… no siblings?”
“Threatening both rules in one night?”
“Oh, come on,” he says, disappointment melting his smile. “I get it, you’re a private person, but not even telling me if you’re an only child? It’s beenweeks, and all I know about you is that you work in sales support and like disgusting burgers.”
“I told you from the beginning what this friendship would look like.”
“You set those standards for a stranger, but I’m not a stranger anymore, Katie.”
It probably makes me a heartless person that his dejection doesn’t inspire an ounce of sympathy—and I’ll be the first to admit that it should.
Mark is right. He’s not a stranger anymore. He’s a good person who’s been a consistent companion in a time when I needed it. He’s always up for dinner. He’s not swayed by my moodiness. He always tells me that he’s here if I need him.
But I’ve never called on Mark for help—and I never will—for the same reason that I can’t bring myself to feel bad for him now.
I’ve already experienced the worst pain this world has to offer.
Guilt doesn’t even register.
“No,” I tell him. “You’re not a stranger anymore. But I set those standards because it’s all I have to offer, and I made that clear from the beginning.”
Mark draws in a deep breath. “Fine, I’ll drop it. I just want you to feel like you can tell me things.”
“I do feel like I can tell you things. Like how dinner sucked. I’m picking next time.”
“Or I could cook next time.”
I give him an unimpressed once-over. “You cook?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, I cook. What do you say? Tomorrow night?”
For a moment, I just stare blankly at him.
When it’s clear he isn’t kidding, I sigh. “Are you seriously asking me on a date? This is strike three, Mark. Leave.”
“Oh, come on. It’s not any different than what we’re doing now. It’s just a meal that comes from my kitchen instead of a restaurant.”
