Page 18 of Wicked Sinner
7
BRIDGET
"You're being weird," Jenny announces from her perch at my kitchen counter, watching me stir a pot of spaghetti with more focus than pasta has ever deserved. "Like, weirder than usual weird."
"I'm not being weird," I lie, not looking up from the stove. "I'm just… concentrating."
"On noodles? Bridg, it's literally the simplest thing in the world. You put the pasta in, you wait, you drain it. You don't need to stare at it like you're trying to divine the secrets of the universe."
I finally glance up at her, forcing a smile. "Maybe I'm just trying to make sure it's perfect. You're my guest, after all."
"Since when do you care about being the perfect hostess? I helped you take care of your dad, remember? I’ve seen you at your worst." She hops down from the counter and comes to stand beside me, her dark eyes studying my face with the kind of knowing that comes from fifteen years of friendship. "Seriously, what's going on? You've been off all week."
I bite my lip. She’s right, and I know it. But I don’t want to talk about it.
"I'm fine," I insist, turning back to the stove. "Just tired. Work's been crazy."
It's not entirely a lie. Work has been crazy, but not in the way she thinks. I've been distracted, unfocused, making stupid mistakes that I never make. Yesterday I spent five minutes looking for a wrench that was in my hand the entire time. The day before that, I forgot to tighten the lug nuts on Mrs. Peterson's Honda and nearly sent her rolling down the street with three wheels.
Those are the kinds of mistakes I don’t make. The kind I can’taffordto make, if I want to keep my dad’s shop going. And there’s a lot of responsibility that comes with fixing cars. I couldn’t live with myself if I made a mistake that actually hurt someone.
I’ve got to get it together. But I can't concentrate on anything. My mind keeps wandering to places it shouldn't go, to thoughts I don't want to think, to possibilities that make my stomach churn with anxiety.
"Bullshit," Jenny says bluntly, crossing her arms over her chest. "I've known you since we were twelve, Bridget Lewis. I know when you're lying."
"I'm not?—"
"You are. You've been distracted all week. You barely touched your lunch when I came by on Tuesday. You cancelled our movie night on Friday with some lame excuse about burning your hand, which I can see isn’t true?—”
“It was a little burn. It healed?—”
“And now you're acting like making spaghetti and jarred sauce is some kind of culinary challenge." She looks at me flatly. “Bridg. C’mon. Who can you talk to if not me?”
I glance at the simple meal I'm preparing—spaghetti with store-brand marinara sauce, the kind of dinner that costs lessthan seven dollars and can feed two people. It's not fancy, but it's what I can afford right now. What I can always afford.
"Maybe I just wanted to make sure you had a good meal," I tell her, reaching for the colander. "You work double shifts all the time. I bet you live on hospital vending machine food."
"Nice deflection, but I'm not buying it." She leans against the counter, her expression softening slightly. "What's really going on? You know you can tell me anything."
The thing is, I do know that. Jenny has been my best friend since middle school. We’ve gotten each other through every stage of life, through breakups and graduations and job challenges. She helped me with my father and held me when I cried after his death. She helped me figure out the paperwork to keep the shop running, listened to me vent about difficult customers and mounting bills without ever making me feel like a burden.
She's the one person I should be able to tell about this. But every time I think about saying the words out loud, my throat closes up.
Because saying them would make it real. And I'm not ready for it to be real.
"I'm just stressed about money," I say instead, which is also true. "The shop's been slow lately, and I've got that stack of bills on my desk that keeps getting higher."
"Is that all?" She doesn't sound convinced. "Because you've been dealing with money problems for years, even before your dad passed, and you've never been this… I don't know, secretive about it."
"I'm not being secretive," I protest, draining the pasta with more force than necessary. "I'm just… processing things."
"What things?"
"Just… things." I grab two plates from the cabinet, focusing on the mundane task of serving dinner. "Can we just eat? I'm starving."
It's another lie. I haven't been hungry in days. The thought of food makes my stomach turn most of the time, which is ironic considering how much I used to love eating. But Jenny doesn't need to know that.
We sit at my small kitchen table, and I force myself to take a few bites of pasta. It tastes like cardboard, but I chew and swallow anyway, trying to look normal. Trying to pretend that everything is fine.
