Page 32 of Ablaze

“Or maybe you could have told me in one of the several hundred text messages we send to each other in a day, or when you came over and we read together on my damn couch for four hours just days ago. Or, oh, I don’t know . . .” I lift my arms, letting them drop to my sides. “Today, when we spent an entire fucking day baking!”

Mala nods, her chin wobbling. “Yeah, you’re right, Dean, I could have told you all those times, but why . . .?” She takes in a shuddering breath. “Tell me why you’re so angry. Tell me why I owe you an explanation when you were the one who–” Her watery gaze battles with mine, and mine dares her to finish her thought. After a pause, she seems to compose herself marginally. “Tell me why you’re here fuming–”

“Because we’re friends, Mala!” I boom, making her flinch. “Because you’re my goddamn best friend, and I should have known!”

A part of me feels like an asshole for yelling, but fuck! Does she not get it? Does she not know what she fucking means to me? Does she not know how this is twisting me up so hard inside that I feel like a damn pretzel?

She nods as a tear drops to her cheek. “Yeah, sparky. We're friends. You’ve made that abundantly clear. So, in that light, we should tell each other about who we see and who we fuck, right?” Her eyes blaze, landing on my neck, at what I’m sure is the hickey Megan left there. “Clearly, you’ve divulged all your conquests with me.”

My hand finds the damn bruise on my neck, and I feel like a fucking asshole all over again. “It wasn’t even like that.”

Mala laughs without an ounce of cheer. “It doesn’t matter what it was like, Dean. We’ve known each other for what, three years now? Have you told me about every fucking Jane and Julie you’ve hooked up with?”

I hold her gaze, knowing the reason she specifically brought up that name. “You’re deflecting, and Jane is a friend.”

“A friend.” Her eyes bounce angrily against mine. “A friend I’ve never met in the years I’ve known you. A friend you leave to see randomly during Christmas get-togethers without explaining anything to anyone.”

My head hits the wall behind me, and I lose the fight inside me. “You want to know who Jane is? I’ll fucking tell you. Jane is my friend Zander’s widow. Zander and I were in the fire academy together, and he died when we were called to fight the fucking California fires years ago. He told me to take care of his wife before he died, and that’s what I try to do by visiting her and her five-year-old daughter, my goddaughter–a kid Zander didn’t even know about when he died. I try to see them when I can.” I pause, keeping my eyes on her. “Now you know who Jane is. Happy?”

Mala’s throat bobs as her anger wanes. Her warm hands cup my face, and she closes the distance between us. “I . . . I didn’t know, Dean. You never told me,” she whispers as her sweet breath tickles my lips. “Why didn’t you tell me about them?”

I swallow through the dryness building in my throat. “I don’t know.”

How do I explain any of it? My fears, the constant internal struggle, my fucking nightmares? Watching him take his last few breaths. Seeing his heart break into a thousand pieces, knowing he was leaving her but not being able to do a single thing about it.

How do I explain to her the shit Jane has been through, the years of therapy after having lost the love of her life? Sure, she’s doing better now–a lot better–but it doesn’t take away the likely fact that she still believes the words she said to me after Zander died.

How do I explain to her how those words thrash around in my head every night like wild beasts in a mosh pit?

What would telling Mala accomplish anyway, except shed more light on a fear she likely already lives with?

So many people in her life, including her brother and me, are firefighters and risk our lives every day. Why immerse her further in the fear of losing any of us?

The only hope I have is that she never faces losing the only family she has left and . . . that she never gets involved with one of us. She’s already been through too much, and she doesn’t deserve an ounce more of pain.

Mala heaves out a sigh as a silence settles between us. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Warren. I should have.”

I stare at her, knowing I shouldn’t ask but do, anyway. “Why didn’t you?”

Mala leans away from me, her head hanging as she struggles to answer. “I don’t know. Fear, maybe? I guess I was scared of your reaction, but I knew I’d have to tell you sooner or later, anyway.”

I nod, despite the burning sensation between my ribs. “Do you like him?”

Her lips lift into a curve and, as much as I hate that they lift at the thought of him, I love her smile too much to want her to stop. “I think so.”

We stare at each other in silence for a moment and a million thoughts race through my head–none of which I can voice, not even to myself.

“For the record, I already fucking hate him.”

Her shoulders sag as her smile disappears. “You haven’t even met him.”

“I don’t need to meet him to know he doesn’t deserve you. No one does.”

“He’s a nice guy, Dean. It’s important to me that you and Rohan give him a chance.”

I hold in the roar that wants to be set free and move toward her door, pulling on the knob with more force than I intended. “Fine.”

I’m just about to step out when she grabs my elbow, questions floating in her eyes, surely from my curt response. “Dean–”

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