She presses her lips together to stave off emotion. I know her too damn well. Any other time I’d step in, place a hand on her back, offer her support. Today I doubt that’s welcome. I stand close, waiting for my time to say goodbye and after Claire is polite to me, and Jillian is settled in the car, I put it in reverse to back out of their narrow driveway.
“That was nice, what your mom said.”
Her gaze is out her window, eyes on her parents still standing on their front porch stairs, watching us leave. “It was.”
“Maybe things will be better with them from now on.”
“Maybe.”
And that’s the last word she speaks for three, long, torturous hours, until I pull up to her house and she jumps out of my car before I’ve placed it in park.
She grabs her suitcases from the trunk and says goodbye and it’s the most final sounding word I’ve ever word.
There’s more to her silence and her avoiding me then it has to do with her family. If only she’d open up, I could fix it.
But perhaps this weekend has been long and hard enough for her.
I’ll give her time.
Then I’ll tell her how I feel. I don’t want the weekend, the drama with her family or her sadness about Norman making her doubt me. Hell, when I add up all the emotional rollercoasters she took this weekend, I don’t even want to broach anything now. That’d make me a dick, and I only want what’s best for her.
“Jillian,” I call to her as she struggles with her luggage on the narrow walkway, not accepting my help. “If you need me, I’m always here.”
“Have a good week. And thanks… for everything this weekend.”
She turns and heads toward her front door. Watching her walk away from me is the most dreaded feeling.
Worse than a playoff game loss.
I fear I’ve spent the weekend trying to get my best friend to fall in love with me, like I am with her, and I lost.
Big time.
24
Jillian
My doorbell rings, the dulcet tones echoing through my house into the back yard where I’ve been digging in dirt since I got back from my pre-sunrise morning run. It’s all I can do to keep the thoughts of last weekend away and even then it’s pointless.
We’re friends. Of course we are. What else would we be?
I’d almost been right behind Klaus when I heard him talking to Adrianna. The girl is a wild one and once I saw her dragging him to the bar, I figured I should save him. She’d probably have him doing body shots within a blink.
Shame on me.
We’re just friends.
It explains everything and nothing. None of it makes sense. The weekend. His bullshit “let’s not pretend but live it” claim. The way he made love to me that very morning. What was this? Him trying to start a friends-with-benefits arrangement with me without telling me first?
I’ve played the weekend over and over in my head all week long and worse, after he texted me Monday and Tuesday, I haven’t heard from him since.
Not that I want to.
I’m not sure we have anything left to say to one another.
I stupidly and naively thought he wanted more than friendship with me. I’ve hidden the fact I’ve been in love with Klaus for long enough and to finally see the opportunity we could have together, I blindly dove into it. And here I thought the only thing I was afraid of was it not working out. Not him playing me like a fiddle.
Who the hell knows. Maybe all the emotion I thought was involved wasn’t there at all.
Thank God I didn’t open my mouth on the dance floor when I finally found my courage to let him know the truth. I would have made a complete fool of myself.
“Get your ass out of the dirt and into the shower, because girl, you have some explaining to do!”
At the first shout, I jump, but as I see Becca in the doorway to my kitchen, champagne bottle in one hand and box of cheap donuts in her other, I groan.
“Go away. I thought I told you I didn’t want to do brunch today.”
“Yes. And that means you’re dying, so as your best friend, it’s my responsibility to come check on you.”
I toss the weeds I’ve pulled into my compost bucket and brush dirt off my hands. “I would like my day back to what I said before.”
“No, you don’t. You just want to be alone and to keep ignoring me. Two very different things.”
“And yet you’re here.”
“Because I love you and you haven’t told me anything that happened last weekend. Was it that bad?”
“Worse.” I pluck the champagne bottle from her hand and tear off the foil.
Her green eyes are filled with worry, as is the twist in her lips.
“It was a shitshow of all weekends and one I would very much like to forget ever happened. Is that possible?”
“Not with all the champagne in the world, honey. Talk to me.”
She won’t leave. I don’t want her to. I’ve spent a week alone, throwing myself into work, running more miles in a week than I usually do in three. I’ve worn out my body and brain and none of it’s helping.
“I’ll talk, but only if you bought my favorite cream-filled twists.”
“Oh honey.” She grins and opens the box so I can see today’s haul. “I bought out the entire section.”
“Then let’s eat.” She turns and heads into the kitchen. I follow her, setting down the champagne on the counter. “I’ll go take your advice and shower. Don’t even think of starting without me.”
As I say it, Becca reaches for the champagne and pops the cork. “No promises. That depends on how long you take.”
It takes me fifteen minutes to shower and get dressed. I come back downstairs, wrapping my hair into a bun at the top of my head until it dries and find Becca seated at one of the barstools, two glasses of champagne poured and donuts spread out on a platter.
Apparently we’re forgoing the orange juice component of the mimosa.
“You actually waited?”
“I figured with the mood you’ve been in this week, I didn’t want to get my head ripped off by not listening.”
“Funny.” I shove her shoulder and take a seat next to her.
“So this shitshow…”
“Can’t a girl at least get a donut in her own home you broke into before being interrogated?”
“Nope. Whatever it is that happened while you and Klaus were gone has made you look like you haven’t slept in a week and worse than I felt when my dad accidentally ran over my puppy.”
The donut I’ve just grabbed freezes at my mouth. “Your dad did what?”
She flips her hand in the air dismissively. “I was seven. Eventually recovered after years of therapy. Don’t change the subject.”
“Have you always been this crazy?”
She grins, manic and wide, and she laughs a bit like a lunatic. “Of course. That’s why you love me.”
“Not today,” I mutter, but she’s right. It’s Saturday, and I’ve already broken my cardinal rule of no running on Saturdays.
Klaus wants to be friends.
I have no idea how to move on from this.
Becca, mimosas, and donuts are a great way to start trying.