Page 109 of The Wright Man

The first time we almost didn't come back from it.

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Angelica

When They Were 18…

It had been seven days.

Seven days since Maleek blew up on me at the party. Seven days since the words I never thought I'd hear from his mouth—at least, not directed at me—sliced through me like glass.

Seven days since my best friend, the boy who knew me better than I knew myself, looked me in the eye like I was just another person on the outside of his pain and told me to shut up.

It was the longest we'd gone without speaking since we were five.

I missed him so much I couldn't breathe right. My whole body felt off—like I'd been walking around with a limb gone and pretending I could balance without it. He'd been missing from my world for seven days and I felt every single one of them in my chest.

I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, holding up the burnt-orange sundress Gavin had asked—no, told—me to wear, and trying to convince myself I wasn't already in a bad mood before I'd even walked out the door.

He'd texted me a photo of his outfit two hours ago. Some obnoxiously bright button-down and off-white pants with orange accents. "Wear something that matches. You know how I like us to coordinate."

I'd stared at that message for a full minute before responding with a thumbs up. Passive-aggressive. Quietly annoyed. Just how he liked me.

Orange. He picked orange. He knows I hate orange.

It looked good on me, but made me feel loud and cheap, like a construction cone in lipstick. But it wasn't just the color. It was the whole thing—his assumption that I'd adjust for him, match him, fall in line with his vision of who I should be, what we should look like together.

Most days, I could ignore it. Tonight, it just rubbed me raw.

Maybe because my heart was already somewhere else.

I hadn't stopped thinking about Maleek all day. All week. I'd nearly texted him at least ten times. Deleted every draft.

I wasn't ready to forgive him for how he talked to me, but I missed him more than I was angry. Missed his steady voice. His sarcasm. The way he looked at me when I said something dumb and he pretended not to find it endearing. I missed the way we existed in the same room, synced like heartbeat and breath. Missed being seen.

I wrapped my arms around myself and sat on the edge of my bed.

It wasn't just the missing. It was the knowing, too. Knowing that I loved him.

Not the convenient kind of love. Not the safe, uncomplicated kind we used to laugh off when we were kids. Not the "I got your back" kind we'd held onto through breakups and trauma and years of trying to survive.

It was deeper. Complicated. Raw. Real.

It had been hiding under the surface for years—since he kissed me at twelve and made me promise to not make it weird. Since I basically bust down his door after Ms. Dana died and braided his hair in silence until his walls came back down.

I'd buried it. Let Gavin into that space instead. Because Gavin was easy. He made sense on paper. He wasn't wrapped up in years of grief and ache and unspoken things.

But Maleek...

Maleek was written in my bones.

And I didn't know what to do with that.

The doorbell rang.

I stood, smoothing the orange fabric down over my hips, already rehearsing the polite excuse I was going to give Gavin for taking too long to get ready. Maybe I'd fake a headache. Maybe I wouldn't have to—maybe seeing him would trigger a real one.

I opened the door—