Page 68 of Ablaze

“What about the café?”

She looks up at me from her spot on the couch, a frown pulling her mouth down. “I talked to Rohan and Samantha this morning. Since I still have a little more than a year left on the lease for the building, Samantha thinks she might be able to manage the café with Betty, and I can supervise and do the paperwork remotely from LA.”

I nod, swallowing against the jagged stone lodged in my throat. “Seems like you have it all figured out.”

Mala gets to her feet. “Dean–”

I don’t let her finish, trying to hide the roughness in my voice. “Congratulations, sprinkles! This is great news.”

And even though I’m saying exactly what she wants to hear, her teary brown eyes glare back at me as if betrayed. A tear falls to her cheek, and as much as my hand begs to wipe the damn thing off, I don’t.

Her husky whisper crawls over my skin before burying inside my ribs. “Is that all you have to say to me? Tell me how you feel, Dean. Tell me what you think.”

Tell her what I think?

How I feel?

If I wasn’t feeling like the earth had just slid from under my feet, I’d actually laugh.

Tell her what I think?

What does she expect me to say here?

Demand that she change her mind, her plans? Tell her that what she and I have here is far better than a dream job she’s always wanted? Beg her to stay for me?

Could she want that?

And if I told her what I came here to say, would it change her mind? Would it make her stay?

What if it did? Could I live with that? Could I live with knowing she didn’t take a job she’s wanted for years because I finally got my shit together to tell her how I felt?

Could I live with possibly being the reason for her resentment years down the line when she realizes that life with me isn’t as exciting as she’d hoped?

Or what if she doesn’t feel the same way?

Could we save our friendship across the distance, despite my confession? Could we work through the awkwardness through texts and phone calls?

A little voice inside my head says I already know how she feels because if she loved me the way I love her, she wouldn’t have chosen to leave in the first place.

It’s unfair and such a fucking cop-out on my part, I know. I can hear it even as the thought forms, but I can’t find it in me to argue with it, either. Not right this second.

If only I’d gotten my shit together to tell her how I felt sooner–God, even a fucking week ago would have been better than this. If I only told her that she’s not just some girl I shoot the shit with when I’m bored or someone I keep around to make me laugh. She’s not just my best friend or my closest confidant. She’s my fucking world. My home.

But I can’t say any of those things to her now. I won’t for all the reasons I shouldn’t.

My molars grind and I force my voice not to shake. “No, I forgot to say one more thing.”

She takes a step closer, placing a tentative hand on my forearm. Her words tumble out with a sob. “Tell me.”

I reach out and wipe her tears with my thumb. God, I fucking hate them. Hate them more than anything I’ve ever hated before. And I won’t be the reason for them.

She’s crying because she thinks she’s letting me down by moving. That she’s moving on from our friendship. She’s also crying because it’s hard to leave a place you’ve been in for so long. And the last thing she needs right now is for me to beg her to change her mind.

I flash her a quick smile, trying my fucking best to mean what I say, hoping to be the supportive friend she’s been to me. “I’m happy for you. When do you start?”

Her shoulders slump as if that’s not what she wanted to hear. “In two weeks. The company is moving my stuff. I’m driving there next Friday after I pack up everything and get Samantha set up at the café.”

“I’ll drive there with you.”

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