“Don’t say that, D!” he blusters.
“Why would I repeat that toxic pattern?”
“You’re not your parents, gorgeous.”
I pull a face. “Stop calling me that.”
“Why would I? It’s what you are.”
My drunk brain doesn’t translate his compliment that well. And I don’t need to. The lights shift, becoming brighter as we enter the parking garage, and my ears hurt when the squeal of his tires sounds overly loud to me.
“We’re home.”
Home.
He’s mine.
Does he know that?
“I do know that, D. You’re my home too.”
Huh. I said that out loud.
“Yes, you did. Now, come on.”
Once he parks, he helps me out of the SUV. The overhead lights glare and make my eyes sting.
I flop into him, limbs sagging when he tries to get me over his shoulder again. He settles for carrying me like a bride, and I’m wellaware that I cry once we cross our threshold because I’ll never be Zach’s bride.
Stupid Freya. I never even thought about Zach and marriage before. I wouldn’t want to be his wife. Or his girlfriend.
I’m his best friend.
And best friends are forever and wives aren’t.
“Some wives are,” Zach whispers as he places me in my bed.
“Not like best friends,” I mumble.
“Get some sleep, D.”
I roll onto my side and that’s me gone.
I don’t feel him do something to my blistered feet.
I don’t feel him drag up my blanket.
Don’t even feel him hold my hair up in the middle of the night when I puke out my guts.
But I don’t need to feel him.
This is what best friends are for.
FOUR
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Pecan: Is it true?
