“It’scancer then.” She leaned forward, sliding her hands toward me over the Formicatabletop. “Oh my God. You have cancer. Don’t’ worry, friend, you also have me. We’regoing to fight this, K. Fight it with all we got.”
Ithrew my hands in the air before she could touch me. “Has anyone ever told youhow obnoxious you are?”
Shegrinned at me. “Nope.”
“You’reobnoxious.”
Herexpression didn’t falter. “Yeah, but that doesn’t count because you love me.”
“I’mreconsidering actually.”
Shestuck out her tongue and handed me a menu at the same time. Saturday morningswe always grabbed brunch at the Blue Pelican. It was this hole in the wall divethat served the best corned beef hash on the planet.
“Thisis how I know I’m right,” she murmured. “You’re so grumpy today.”
Iraised an eyebrow. “I thought you knew you were right by how I looked?”
Shewaved a hand at me. “I was giving you a hard time. I mean… your eyes are alittle bloodshot today, but the eyeliner helps. It looks good on you. You neverwear it.”
Staringhard at the menu in front of me, I didn’t comment. I didn’t usually wear makeupto work, especially not eyeliner. I was more of a waterproof mascara andhydrating primer kind of girl. But Dillon was right about my eyes. And the bagsunderneath them. Also, how my hair had decided to misbehave and get all wild onme—even with half of it knotted on the top of my head. I was a mess today.
“It’sokay,” I relented. “I didn’t sleep at all last night. I’m exhausted.”
“Youneed a night off.”
I smirkedat her. “That isn’t going to happen.”
“You’reall…” She made hand gestures that put her at a cross between a zombie versionof Frankenstein and a chipmunk having a seizure. “Tightly wound.”
Shehad no idea.
Thewaiter stopped to take our order. Dillon got the roasted tomato and poblano eggwhite mini quiches and I got a cup of coffee.
“Areyou sure you don’t want something to eat?” our regular server, Dan, asked.
“Um,maybe the oatmeal? With the berries and brown sugar.”
Dan’seyebrows raised, but he didn’t comment. Dillon wasn’t as kind.
“Ohmy God. It is cancer.”
“Shutit.”
“Oatmeal,Ky? Oatmeal? How bad is it? Stage four? Stage five? Oh my God. Is it stageten?”
Staringat my gorgeous, talented, super ditzy friend, I wondered whether to bring upWyatt now or tackle her severely irrational fear of cancer. “I think canceronly has four stages. I think stage ten is dead.”
Shepounded a dainty fist on the table. “That’s not the point!”
Ineeded to put her out of her misery. That was the kind thing to do. But Icouldn’t seem to get the words to leave my mouth. They sat on my tongue, makingit numb and immovable.
Ripthe Band-Aid, Kaya. Tear that motherfucker right off. “Wyatt and I made outlast night.”
Sheslumped back against the booth and blinked at me. She didn’t even have to say aword. I felt her judgment fill the small restaurant like helium in a balloon
“Obviouslymaking out with Wyatt was a mistake,” I told her. “Obviously it won’t happen again.”
Shestill didn’t say anything, and I decided I should have let her believe it wasstage ten cancer.
