“He loves you.”
If I know something, it’s that, but he’s also a stubborn idiot. Black dots scatter across my vision. I am so pissed at him, I could punch him until his head gets straight.
Inside my loft, she slumps on the edge of the sofa. I head to the kitchen, open a cabinet, and prepare some tea. I wouldn’t even have had tea in the house without Lilly. Relationships are messy and end. Friendship is better. Then why does my heart stop and start beating every time I see Lilly, pumping me up with renewed life?
I bring Amelie the cup, swirls of steam dancing above the chamomile brew.
With shaky fingers, she brings it to her mouth. “I want to be there for him. I thought we moved past the need to deal with our own stuff separately.”
I drop on the sofa next to her, raking a hand through my hair. “What did he say?”
She stares blankly into the cup. “That he will return. But I…”
“He’s going through a rough patch,” I say, needing to do some damage control on my best friend’s behalf.
She shuts her eyes for a moment. “I’ve been there every minute. I know what he’s going through. He’s so obsessed with my independence. It would be admirable if I wanted that as badly as being there for him.”
A faraway look contorts her face. She takes small sips, and then she places the cup down with more force than necessary. “I’m somad at him. I am not taking him back. Maybe you were right. Look at me crying to my brother over his best friend.”
Emotions lie thick in the air. I love them both and seeing them suffer again without being able to help tears me apart. Nothing hurts more than witnessing the ones you love hurting. I would take it from them if I could.
“He will come to his senses,” I assure her.
She interlaces her fingers on her lap, staring at them with a lost expression.
“It doesn’t even feel like a breakup,” she whispers.
I tuck her to my side. “You can stay at my place for a while.”
“I need to go back. I can’t lose him and my bakery. Work has always helped.”
I drive her to the airport. In the car, she looks out the window, chest heaving with deep respirations. Her dejected sighs wreck me.
“I don’t know what I will tell mom and dad, but I don’t need them on my case. I have enough to deal with.”
“No problem.” I am good at keeping secrets.The irony.
I can clearly see the love for him glistening in her eyes—the hope, all the dreams, but also the struggle.
After I park, I accompany her inside the airport, waiting with her until she goes through security. We hug tightly, and my sister says a final goodbye with a small wave.
People steal glances at me. Usually, I am all for taking my time to sign autographs and talk a bit with every fan, but today I just walk away, saying, “No, I’m not Ian Weston.”
Back at my loft, I pace around. Every minute, rage takes over until it conquers my composure. I would have been there for him if he let me.
I call him again, and when he answers, I yell, “Are you kidding me? You fucking promised not to make her cry again.”
“Ian—”
“No, fuck you. She’s my little sister and apparently the fucking love of your life. It doesn’t seem to mean much. But again, you left me too. And I am supposed to be your fucking best friend,” I grit out.
“Man, I gotta heal. I can’t be the man for her right now, nor your best friend. I won’t be a bitter husband, envious of his woman having something to love, or envious of my best friend still playing,” he says in a calm voice. His words don’t diffuse the fog of anger, though.
“How will leaving help with that? I know you’re hurting, asshole. I understand. She does too. I thought you were loyal. Must have been mistaken,” I snicker.
“Ian,” he tries, but he can’t reach me.
I am hurt and mad, a combination that does more harm than good. “You listen to me. I hope you get better, but I am majorly pissed at you. Consider us on a friendship break.”
