Page 93 of My Merry Mistake
“No, it’s new,” she says.
“Exclusive?”
She looks at me. “Why?”
I hold up a hand. “Just being a nosy friend—I know this is”—I flick a pointed finger from her to me and back again—“you know—platonic.”
She watches me for a beat. “We haven’t labeled anything. It’s all new. Like . . . a trial phase.” She goes back to staring out the window. Subject closed.
But it’s a reminder that pursuing her right now isn’t a good idea. My goal is just to be her friend. I can do that, right?
I notice she’s discreetly wringing her hands. Not sure what that’s about. “You okay?”
Her gaze falls to her folded hands, then she shakes her head. “Yeah. Yes. Just tired.”
“Tired,” I repeat.
She nods. “More than just tired—I feel drained.”
I want to talk, to get her mind off it, to joke around, lighten things up, but instead I take Gray’s advice and just listen.
“I don’t know how long I’m supposed to wait until things go back to normal. I’m so used to”—she stops, trying to find theright word—“doing, to working on things, being busy—and this whole taking it easy thing is . . . it’s just hard.”
“You ever hear the saying ‘it’s okay to not be okay’?”
She scoffs. “So cliché.”
“Being cliché doesn’t mean it’s not true,” I say.
She goes still.
I tap my thumb on the steering wheel. We’re back on the highway, driving to Loveland, and I have a feeling there’s more going on in her mind, and I really wish I knew what it was.
“Okay,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “I know you don’t like to share, so I can take the hint.”
“Just because I don’t share with you doesn’t mean I don’t share with anyone.”
“Oof, point taken.” When she turns to me, I say, “I’m just playing. I don’t expect you to spill your guts to me.” Then, after a beat, I add, “Except in the garbage can in your office.”
I’m glad when she laughs. Feels like a win. But then she says, “I think it’s pointless to talk about my feelings.”
“Probably why you’re so tightly wound.” I come to a four-way stop with a blinking red light and a semi turns in front of me, out of turn.
Raya practically growls.
“We’re not in a hurry,” I remind her. “You’ve got nowhere to be, remember?”
She rolls her eyes. “How can I forget?”
I hit the gas, but behind this truck, I’m stuck at thirty-five miles per hour. I purposely don’t pass it because the longer it takes to get back to her house, the more time I get to spend with her.
“Okay, so if you were around someone who youwouldtalk to about your feelings, if you didn’t think it was pointless or stupid . . . what would you say?”
For a long moment, she doesn’t respond.
“Come on, Hart, you already know I can keep a secret.”
I expect her to ignore me or tell me to shut up or something dismissive like that, but instead, she says, “I was thinking about Grace.”
