Carli
I’ve told Circe as much as I can, but only enough that I don’t feel like I’ve lied to my best friend. We’re sitting in the chapel, just around the corner from their room in the quiet space, alone. I ran down the story of my sisters, my father, the family, and the obligations I despise.
I’m expecting scathing unhappiness, attitude full of epic ‘fuck yous.’ At least that she’s pissed I kept it to myself. But so far, nothing. She listened without a word—no criticism, and not an ounce of disappointment crossed her face. And bit by bit, as I told her the story, I expected her to shout, or rail at the injustice of keeping her out of the loop. Then I half expected she’d rise out of her wheelchair and kick my ass. But again, she didn’t. And this is why I love my girl. No judgement.
“So let me get this straight…” She pauses, straight-faced and serious. I stay quiet and wait on her to finish her thought, which seems to take forever. “We didn’t have to eat boxed pasta?”
I giggle, surprised that’s all that matters to her. “That’s all you got out of my confession?”
“It’s important to categorize your priorities, Car. Salads, ice cream, expensive beers. Not once did I have boxed garbage in that list, but it made it to the top ten way too often.”
True. It did.
“Well, I guess it goes like this. I always knew you had secrets and I had mine. You didn’t bug me for mine, and I’m not about to bug you for yours, even if I think you’ve yet to tell me the whole story.” Opening my mouth to defend myself, she cuts me off. “Look, Car, I know you’re not giving me all of it, and I know you well enough to know that you’re trying to keep me safe. So how about you tell me what’s going on with you and Whiskey instead?”
“What?”
“Please. Like I don’t see what’s going on.” Laughing deep, she coughs as her still damaged body hitches to grab air. Once she composes herself, she continues. “Do you think I’m blind, woman?”
“Nothing is going on. I saw him in the elevator on the way up.”
She squints her eyes at me. “Right. And my racer means nothing to me.”
“Circe—”
“Look. Yeah, I get it, Carli. He’s sexy, broody, growly, grouchy, systemically the epitome of man candy from top to bottom. Fuck, Crown men only seem to come one way—addictive. Your life is a train wreck and it isn’t awesome, but just do me a favor and don’t lie to me about him. Even the way he looks at you, I’ve seen it before. I’ve been on the receiving end.”
“You do get it, I guess.”
“Then don’t lie to me. What’s going on?” Dog on a bone. She won’t relent until I give her something. Freaking best friend.
I think about it before I answer her. Is something going on? Am I lying when I say nothing is? No, I’m not. “Nothing is happening with Jamieson and I. He’s everything you said, but we’re not a thing.”
“Then why do you call him Jamieson?” She smirks knowingly. She’s got me.
I waffle on the idea of him being something, but being around us both all the time, I guess she sees what’s going on. “Yeah. He’s sexy, he’s dangerously gorgeous, and he makes me need Jai, but we’re not looking for love.”
Grinning from ear to ear, Circe scratches the skin under her casted arm. “Carli, I want you happy. And if he makes you run for Jai, that’s impressive in my books.” She touches my arm, her face serious. “No one said love was in the works. It’s easy to see you two have a connection.”
I don’t answer her because I don’t need to. She’s made her point.
“So?” I ask.
“It’s entirely up to you. You sound like family obligations are about to take you home, and I can’t join you there. If Jamieson is important, even a smidge, tell him you’ll be away. He’s a Crown. That stubborn bastard won’t let you out of this hospital without knowing why you’re a mess.” As I’m about to interject that I’m not, Circe holds up her hand, halting me. “Look, he’s gonna track you down somehow, trust me on that. Now, lover, I’m tired, and I want to curl up with my racer.”
Rising off the bench, I push her toward the exit as I muse quietly about what she’s said. It’s funny. I pushed her into the arms of Wyatt. Bumbling around after the interview all that time ago, Circe was the woman using a pink pocket rocket to get off with. Now our conversations about her and the wild racer’s sex life have actually had me trying out new things myself. I didn’t know men like him existed, other than in books. The way Jamieson crowds me, how he grips my hair like a harness, I see that they both seem to have the dark, dangerous sex down pat. I’m not afraid of him, I just don’t think he needs my baggage. He’s carrying enough for a month-long trip without my fucked up shit.