Page 27 of One Hundred Lights
God, I’m the worst.
But did Reese just technically give me permission to be with Adrian?
“I just—” I can’t deny it. I can’t pretend that I wasn’t tangled with her ex-husband last night and sitting on his lap in my bed just thirty minutes ago.
Reese stares, pressing her lips together, searching my face, and for a split second, I imagine the way she used to look at me when we were best friends. But now, she sees right through me.
“Go home, Britt.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “Maybe over time?”
In response, Reese simply closes the door gently in my face, leaving me alone on her front steps, more confused than ever.
12
ADRIAN
There’s been no word from Britt since I left her house this morning.
Me
Last night was amazing. I think we over-delivered at the winter dance
My attempt at a joke gets no response, so an hour later, I try again.
Me
Thanks for letting me stay over last night. Can I see you later?
But as soon as I send it, I know it’s too casual. Too flippant. Something’s going on with Britt, and I can only hope she lets me back in. Because maybe I can help her work it out.
When she doesn’t respond for two more hours, I send another, because I’m desperate, apparently, or maybe just in love.
Me
Hey. Are you okay?
I should have said something different. My text implies something is wrong, and maybe nothing is. Maybe I should’ve told her how beautiful she is, or how much I don’t regret last night, or how much I want to kiss her again.
Was last night a mistake? Not for me. No way. But what if it was for Britt? The look on her face this morning was full of complex layers of emotion, and not all of them good. And the way she wants to be friends with Reese?Shit.
I want to help her get everything she dreams of, but that might be too much.
I stand in the toiletries aisle at the pharmacy. Britt’s family room was fully decorated for Christmas, complete with a beautiful tree and stockings lining the mantel. One for her, Jackson, and each of her cats.
That’s when I realized I don’t have a stocking—or stocking stuffers—for Chelsea.
So far, I’ve added some apple-scented hand lotion, a loofah, nail polish, and an app store gift card to my basket. Will she like any of these things? Probably not, but then, I’m pretty sure that she won’t like anything coming from me. The girl will be forever mad at me for this divorce. And it’ll get even worse if I keep seeing Britt. That look on Chelsea’s face as she watched us in the gym last night wasn’t a good one.
A cold tendril of despair weaves itself around my insides. Shitty husband, shitty father, shitty friend, and shitty, well, whatever I am to Britt.
And I don’t even have an actual stocking for my daughter. I grit my teeth. If I can help Britt find one hundred boxes of lights, I can find a stocking for Chelsea and stuff it until it explodes.
I leave the aisle and head over to the Christmas decorations, which are mostly picked over, except for a shelf full of gross-sounding flavored candy canes, like hot tamale and sour apple. I grab some for Chelsea’s stocking.
That’s when I spot it. My feet freeze in place and I stare at the single box of fairy lights on the shelf.
I pick it up and turn it over in my hands, remembering the laughing fit Britt and I had on Wednesday at store number, what? Three? Four? A smile crosses my face and stays there, refusing to be bullied by my previous negative thoughts.
