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“Look, I care about Busy. If I decide to give her a few pieces of furniture so she isn’t sitting on the fucking floor of her living room anymore, that’s what I’m gonna do. Is that okay with you?”
Sighing, Nick nods. “Yeah, yeah. Fine.”
“I get that you’re just looking out for me,” I tell him, patting him on the shoulder. “And I appreciate it, but Busy and I are fine. Promise.”
“Fine, man. If you say so.”
We move on, shooting the shit about the recent A’s game while we drive out to the cabins. We unload everything and bring the couch around to the back, where I know Busy keeps her screen door unlocked. Then we carefully maneuver the piece inside and get it set up in the center of the living room, facing the wall where most people would probably set up their TV.
“You’re right. Shedoesneed some fucking furniture,” Nick jokes, his eyes scanning around the living room. “You think she’ll be happy about the fact that you’re giving these to her or pissed?”
I chuckle as we begin walking back out to the trailer for the coffee table. “Oh, definitely pissed.”
Nick laughs. “I’ll be honest, I’m not sure I would want to see Busy Mitchell angry.”
I think back to the night we first met, knowing it wasn’t anger I saw on her face when I approached her in the dark, but fear. Sometimes the two can look fairly similar, though, so it’s the only thing I have to go on.
“Well, I’ll just remind her that she broke into my place and now I’ve broken into hers,” I tell him as we get the coffee table set up in front of the couch. “So now we’re even.”
He shakes his head. “Do I want to knowthatstory?”
I smirk at him. “Doesn’t matter if you do. I promised her I’d keep it a secret.”
“See, that’s what I don’t like,” he says, crossing his arms as I close Busy’s screen door. “You shouldn’t be keeping secrets from me. I’m your best friend.”
“And you don’t keep secrets just between you and Claire?”
The question is out before I realize what I’m implying, but Nick catches it immediately, his head rolling back just slightly.
“You mean between me and my wife of eight years?” he asks, laughing. “Of course I do.”
Sighing, I lead us back out to the front. “You know what I mean.”
“Actually, I don’t,” he replies. “Because it sounds a lot like you’re comparing your relationship with Busy—a woman you’ve known for a few months who you claim is just your friend—to the one I have with my wife.” He pins me with a look that says he caught me.
And he did. He did catch me.
But what am I supposed to say?
I have feelings for Busy that are far more than the platonic ones Ishouldhave? I wish with everything inside of me we could have more than just friendship? Admitting those things out loud, to anyone, would be almost as bad as the fact that it’s exactly how I feel.
“Maybe just think about it,” he continues, tugging the passenger door open. “Dating her, I mean. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”
I chuckle to myself, but it rings hollow.
Because the worst has already happened.
It’s almost seven when I hear Busy’s car pulling up on the gravel drive outside, her brakes squeaking just slightly as she comes to a stop. I lie stretched out on my couch, baseball on the TV, though now I can barely focus on it knowing she’s going to walk into her house and see the furniture I set up. Honestly, I really have no clue how she’s going to react.
Only a few minutes go by before I hear her screen door and then the heavy thuds of her footfalls first on her porch then mine. I know without a doubt those are not happy steps.
“Why is there furniture in my living room?” she asks, standing at my screen door.
I look over my shoulder, finding her with her hands on her hips, confirming my earlier assumption.
“When I told you I was considering getting a couch, I wasn’t asking you to give me one.”
Sitting up, I nod. “I know that.”
